Poets

Don't tell me what the poets are doing
Don't tell me that they're talking tough
Don't tell me that they're anti-social
Somehow not anti-social enough

And porn speaks to its splintered legions
To the pink amid the withered cornstalks
In them winter regions
While aiming at the archetypal father
He says with such broad and tentative swipes
"Why do you even bother?"

Don't tell me what the poets are doing
Those Himalayas of the mind
Don't tell me what the poets been doing
In the long grasses over time

Don't tell me what the poets are doing
On the street and the epitome of vague
Don't tell me how the universe is altered
When you find out how he gets paid