The poet has a secret to unfold,
A merry twinkle in his eye;
His greatest tales are of metaphorical gold
And never age; the poet no longer cries.
He is like a close family friend
Telling his meaningful past.
His verse is true 'till the end-
You never will read it too fast.
Once, as a very young boy,
At midnight, the poet crept out-
And, with a childish sort of joy-
Jumped off his roof with a shout.
He will sit up in bed all night,
Recording his endless verse.
He will burn out the bulb on his light,
Just for need of lines to rehearse.
The poet isn't quite free from sin,
But he's charitable, too.
...And I can tell you now with a grin:
I know a poet, and