to pass away the time,

to purge the demons in my head,

nor make up silly rhymes.

I don’t write poetry John

to make a million bucks

to see my name in big bright lights,

no John, no such luck.

I don’t write poetry John

because the words flow through my blood

to spill bright red upon this page

a frenzied, raging flood.

I don’t write poetry John

to court a fair Irish lady,

to romance her on a warm spring eve

the bonny lass, young Beth O’Grady.

No John, sometimes I write poetry

cause I want to need to have to,

and when I must and can’t resist,

I reach for pad and pen!

For in the words, John, don’t you see

I find some long lost friends.