Allow me to express, if not what's poetry?
What poet doesn't showcase intelligence as an artistic principality?
A poet writes for self pleasure, still ends up pleasuring humanity
Who is a poet whose words isn't her identity?
What poet allows lucre thirst be his adversity?
Well, this interrogative persona portrays august poetic activity.
Majestically comes the poet, in the ambiance of repute, vigour as regalia
A crown of brevity, a sceptre of creativity, with wisdom paraphernalia
With a motorcade of complexity, apt style and sonnets of hallelujah
With rhythmic speech for the people, solution in the quagmire
They all chant "Thou art THE POET! Hail! Sire
