A poet has to get to work.
A stanza here; the odd few lines.
Just get it down. What’s on your mind?
Find a rhythm, maybe rhyme.
There’s worse work for a man to do.
There’s some-must earn their corn you know.
Just get it down. Don’t think it through.
The words are there but how’d they go?
Does rhyme need reason, conscious thought?
Don’t stop to think who’ll want to read?
Unconscious scribbles, last resort.
Will this suffice or must I bleed?
Andrew Green's Poems 