We write what we have to

Shakespeare Keats and Spenser
Never had to write
Poems about anal electrocution
Just the sight
Of such a fucking evil
Would have pissed them off like mad
And here I am day after day
Really awfully sad

Writing up the exploits of other
Earthling souls
Treated to beastiality
And rape and murder, roles
That no pure sensitive being
Should be subjected to
But here in modern Britain
It’s what I have to do

Newbolt Browning and Kipling
All wrote what they saw
And there is me preparing
Ugliness so raw
The circus and the rodeo
Live exports truthfully
Ivory and canned hunting
And the infamous Taiji

I sit here on my lonesome
Putting poems through
My psyche every single day
Every poem true
To life with all it’s drama
It’s intelligence and more
Whatever the poets write about
I must say I am sure

I write animals rights odes
And women’s rights and they
Are getting torture and subjugation
Every fucking day
It’s terrible how much we’ve let
Our thoughts and actions fall
How much we hurt the ones we love
Who we shouldn’t hurt at all

A druid and a soulful bard
Sits contemplating much
Wants to love and realise
And just to be in touch
With more positive emotions
But tragically it seems
They are only viable
Occasionally in my dreams