Swine

An examination of the relationship of the true poet to the society around him.

 I cast my pearls before ye
As ye rummage through the dirt,
Ye swinish herd ignore me
For those of lesser worth.
 
'Tis vanity, all vanity,
Those poems a senseless jumble,
A sort of mass insanity
Seems to have overcome them.
 
'Tis gibberish, all gibberish,
No more than asses braying
The nonsense stretching limitless
They know not what they're saying.
 
They know not what they're saying
They repeat it without end
All sense they are betraying
Against reason they offend.
 
The mouths of fools speak loudly
'Tis sim'lar with their pens
They present their droppings proudly
To the snouts of swinish men.
 
And each applauds his neighbour
And all are quite content
Mediocrity is savoured
Thus the life is swine is spent.
 
And the poet on the borders
Looking on with jealous eyes
Must not wallow with the hordes, for
If he does, a poet dies.

Author's Note

Present company excepted, of course.

Reviews

[Tony]

I like this truthful poem.
The poet must see the world with eyes of clarity, and know the real feel and smell of the air, water, the sun.
If a true poet asks you to go fishing, beware.
You will likely be airdropped near a tiny south seas kay, where you will have to 'rummage around a bit' to find the 'fishing gear'.
Such a trip may ruin ones 'real' life, but you would never see it the same anyway.
Thank you for reminding me of my duty.

[Variablecharm]

You do paint the picture. Great poem!