I'm Obliged as a poet to inform you of so,
A poet shares words of both gaily and woe.
We all are not good and some are quite bad,
To bespell others with both happy and sad.
We are a creature our own, of monsterous birth,
Sewing up words and magnifying their worth.
The ability to start a river of tears,
And regain again the strong flow of old fears.
To unleash a reign of unending joy,
The ability to manipulate our readers like toys.
But it doesn't stop there, oh of course no, not yet,
Our abilities stretch on to an unreachable depth.
We can also change ones views of a thing,
A puppetier and his puppet, a master of strings.
To turn ones opinion, to sway ones once thought,
To be able to do this is unyeilding yet naught,
is that the end of our powers, oh yes, there is much more,
An unthinkable order of arms to endure.
To turn anger to dust with a swish of a pen,
To unimaginably corny, an outcast of men.
We are henious creatures, us poets, we are,
We can defile a person no matter how tall.
We have the ability to turn happy to sad,
And turn sad into something that isn't so bad.
So I feel obliged as a poet to inform you of so,
Of both wisdoms of worry and wisdoms of woe.
To warn you of a poets unyeilding attempt,
To charm and curse others, but readers don't fret.
For we poets have this power not only to inveigle,
But to do something else that no one else is quite able.
We poets, you see, have a magical way,
Of capturing the world and scribbling each day.
On parchment or stone tab., it matters of not,
So readers of future can have influence of thought.
So, obliged I had felt, as a poet, you see,
To forewarn you readers who seem always at ease.
Of a poems true worth, which is, without doubt,
A monsterous, beautiful, happy and sad,
Sewing of words that is indeed to be had.