He's a Poet who Don't Know It.

[LorettaYoung]

He's a Poet Who Don't Know It (Free-ranging allowed, creative comments appreciated)

He's a poet who don't know it;
it's not of relevance to him,
with charm he thinks to stature win.
A mentor will secure his place, he thinks,
to please his clique, promote his face.
He thrives on flattery and cheers,
impressing his admirers and peers.
On stage he was the Bard's words of art,
words divided from his self apart.
Is he now upon the stage
or words and heart in life engaged?

For he's a poet who don't know it.
He seeks to best the commonplace.
His aging ass would like to grace
a comfy padded rocking chair;
with, what else, poetic flair.
As one with practiced wits as he,
he casts his nets with subtlety, and care.
He tires and ascends the stair
then breathless falls upon a chair,
with age, though aspirations debonair.
Should he grasp the Bard's spirit there;
and be the poet, who in his glory,
smiles to know it?