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
And porn speaks to its splintered legions
To the pink amid the withered cornstalks in them winter regions
While aiming at the archetypal father
He says with such broad and tentative swipes «Why do you even bother?»
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
Don’t tell me what the poets are doing
On the street and the epitome of vague