Poets

Spring starts when a heartbeat's pounding When the birds can be heard above the reckoning carts doing some final accounting Lava flowing in Superfarmer's direction He's been getting reprieve from the heat in the frozen food section Don't tell me what the poets are doing Don't tell me that they're talking tough Don't tell me that they're anti-social Somehow not anti-social enough, all right And porn speaks to it's splintered legions To the pink amid the withered cornstalks in them winter regions While aiming at the archetypal father He said with such broad and tentative swipes why do you even bother? Don't tell me what the poets are doing Those Himalayas of the mind Don't tell me what the poet's been doing In the long grasses over time Don't tell me what the poets are doing On the street and the epitome of vague Don't tell me how the universe is altered When you find out how he gets paid, all right If there's nothing more that you need now The lawn cut by bare breasted women Beach bleached towels within reach for the women Got to make it, that'll make it by swimming