So very pragmatic
Sp very pathetic
So very powerless
And so romantic
You claw your way through the world grasping for something to call poetry
So you can place that bit of poetry on top of the mahogany table as a trophy
A long time ago there were maidens with calloused hands and burnt skin
And they knew nothing of what you call poetry
Now there is a boy in torn shoes
Sitting in front of a skateboard
He knows nothing of what you call poetry
His fire cannot be fit into a poem
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