Do crude romantic notions about poetry count?
Marching through leading a snobby army.
Does she need to burn the words I´ve been farming?
Can I put out her rage with my sonnet amount?
Why must she slash my rhymes and crouch on them to brown?
She Tramples my moral and extension of meaning in her frenzy.
Marching forward with adour in her totalitarian envy.
Will her animosity throw me to the ground?
Yes I can play by the rules of a fascist,
Who would spit on my work with frothy acid.
Send her constrictive black shirt back.
Yes I can bear her steel knuckled fist.
Who would steal my spark and leave me flacid.
I can bear the blows of her low attacks.
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