It occurs to the Ignoble Poet that all things are shit
We are many; us word beating priests of piss.
Cracking verse on a smoke ridden page
Death to all flower poems, and words about birds
Deftly we abandon the traditional iambic
The pentameter of ten can crash and burn
Structure will not decry our view
Of a world in need of absolute horror
We are many, as we have said. Poets
Against structure. Sadness has needs
Get drunk dear reader, or give up now
We care not for your worthy goals
Life is the same for every man, eventually
We die. Nobody will remember rhyme or verse
It must be clear by now that the rules are gone
In the new form of bollocks and honesty.
We give a fuck enough to be sincere.
Andrew Chapman / Author and Screenwriter 