I'M NOT A REAL POET

"Things fall apart," the poet Yeats would divine,

When order turns to chaos, all poets for order pine,

That's why I'm not a poet,

I think anarchy is fine,

I do not talk of hunter birds,

With the rhyming of my words,

And,  I'll end up at Hades gate, 

Churned by worms, I'll fatten bait.