This Town's Poet

I swear that this town (by the gods up above)

for poets and poetry; they’ve lost all love.

I vow that I’ll venture with stanzas on scrolls

Down south, to seek solace from sensitive souls.

I swear that this town has no style and no taste.

(Don’t cast your pearls here or your words you will waste)

I vow I’ll return when hell’s fires have all froze

Or when dreams and dead men from dust have arose.

I swear that this town of all culture’s been bled

Just walk through the market and hear what is said!

I vow that the poems their poets compile

Though proudly performed will be judged juvenile.

I swear that this town may not be on its own

From North West of England the spirit has flown!

I swear that to beauty those born here are blind;

Become this town’s poet? You’re out of your mind!