Call not a piece 'Just'
and worth less not it's worth
For it's the contest of words
Weaved with brain and blood.
Pay his heart with applause
Send praise' convoy in accord
For poetry wasn't a child's play
From Shakespeare's to our days.
Honour to those magic hands
those of a wordy pengician,
Glory to his enfeebled scribes,
On the slated symbols of life.
Speak less sane of the pen
But the hand that drives the ink
For the value of poetry in poem
Is the shallow of depths so deep?
If you cannot pay the poets,
you need not the gods of words
If you cannot value their worth
Then keep loving words with lust.
Call us what our fathers were called
Place us where your history adore,
For its plain easy to pen and write,
But that's tedious for poems in scribes.