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I have these dreams of late,
cannot be helped says I,
and if you want debate
about the how and why
you must be quite content
to take the waste bin crumbs
it's your predicament
and I will do the sums.
I dream that I am it,
a poet of renown
that every quarter wit
in cap and gown
is drooling on my stuff
all day and night
the big ones huff and puff
the dummies might
come shake my hand one day
or take a bow
perhaps old Bill would stay
and ask me how
to write good poetry
perhaps great songs
and put the moneytree
where it belongs.
But when at last I woke
it was quite clear
that we who like a joke
while gulping beer
write perfect stuff, no doubt
like Ogden Nash
who had the nasty gout
but was so flash
that it will take some years
and some hard thinking
and many happy beers.
Creative drinking
will make the soul come out
and that is where
the talent hangs about
and to be fair
I am a poet
how good depends on
those guys who know it,
the hidden Talisman
who is elusive
as you can see my friend
the most conducive
and all revealing trend
is not for you
because it's others
out of the blue,
also their mothers
who read my stuff
they are the judges
and also plenty tough,
might love my smudges
and what goes in my bin
it's who I write for
strangers and next of kin
and if you want more
to blast and smash
you must go elsewhere
to rise and crash.
You are a poet
if people read you
just so you know it,
it's those who need you.
Herbert Nehrlich
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