I've always been thinking that rhyme is a crime,
That spelling is nil, it is not worth a dime,
That it doesn't matter arrange you how words,
And grammar is "grammer", for what it is worth.

That poetry isn't about simple forms,
And readers should struggle through debris of terms,
To get the connections that eye wouldn't see
And find out the meaning I've deeply concealed.

But people were stupid, reactions were bad,
They raised their eyebrows and shook their heads.
And when I was asking: "What do you think?"
They told me that I should visit a shrink.

They told me that I'm not a poet... Oh well,
I said that they also may go to hell,
For I have a serious matter at hand,
I'll go to someone who will understand.

I went to a poet McAllister Hob,
A hermit of art and a plumber of job.
Though he have never showed me a single piece,
He was second to none in discussing all this.

I told him my story, he laughed in my face:
"You seek for approval? What a disgrace!
Who needs recognition, attention-o-whore!
Don't you realize whom you are writing for?

The art's for the sake of the art, not for sale!
Whatever you're doing, you do for yourself!"
I wanted to argue, I wanted to fight,
But I realized that Mc. Hob... Oh, he's right.

I want an attention, I want some reviews...
I am not a poet. Gosh. This is the truth.