by DampKitten
There once was a poet called DK
Who wrote verse in a suggestive way
Her rhymes were clever and slick
They made many a prick
Stand up stiff and hard night and day.
She wrote about women and men
And the kinks which they practiced, and then
She sent them to Lit
Who did their publishing bit
And they were read over again and again
ššššš
Could it be that poets must first suffer their death?
Succumb to emptiness with their faucets dripping dry?
And only then, will they ascend to life?
A poetic life?