I speak simple, in everyday speech,
and I reveal dimples, and very straight teeth.
But I write byzantine, like a contortionists limbs
So although congregations feel every line,
Untold complications fill every line.
Twisted like intestines, are my pennings,
And hard to digest, with meanings unending.
I pun,
I punch,
Like Punch, I'm well read,
And my words, are well

But one night, while in full flight in the skies of write,
It struck me,
That I could write 'cos I was alive,
And I was alive, 'cos I had arrived
Home that night to meet some staple on the table,
And because there was a home to meet,
And because there were clothes to kit,
A bed on which to lie, and a pen with which to write.

It struck me,
That Shakespeare may have reappeared,
But gone unnoticed because he was on the streets,
Begging with his father, struggling to feed,
That Yeats may as yet walk these streets,
Wheeling a barrow, hoping that maybe tomorrow,
To make his bread rise, he'd have enough yeast.
That Hemingway may be walking heavens way,
A second time, after a life of consignment to penury,
Too broke to afford his own works.

It struck me,
That Wordsworth's word was worth lots,
Only because he was well fed, so his pen bled
That the little Defoe stuck in Darfur,
Can only write bullets from his gun's barrel,
That Twain would've been born in vain,
If he had lost his sight before he could write
That Biola Lawal would not boil a wall
If he were imprisoned within the cold walls
Of a coffin.

Then it struck me,
That when I write that I write, I am not writing right
That all that is penned to but one end,
Recognition, renown and praise,
But now truth stares me in the face,
And says, that all my self-glorifying brag poetry,
Was indeed, nothing, but rag poetry.