by Basil Bunting

    Poetry？ It's a hobby.

    I run model trains.

    Mr. Shaw there breeds pigeons.

    It's not work. You dont sweat.

    Nobody pays for it.

    You could advertise soap.

    Art， that's opera； or repertory——

    The Desert Song.

    Nancy was in the chorus.

    But to ask for twelve pounds a week——

    married， aren't you？——

    you've got a nerve.

    How could I look a bus conductor

    in the face

    if I paid you twelve pounds？

    Who says it's poetry， anyhow？

    My ten year old

    can do it and rhyme.

    I get three thousand and expenses，

    a car， vouchers¹，

    but I'm an accountant.

    They do what I tell them，

    my company.

    What do you do？

    Nasty little words， nasty long words，

    it's unhealthy.

    I want to wash when I meet a poet.

    They're Reds， addicts²，

    all delinquents³.

    What you write is rot.

    Mr. Hines says so， and he's a schoolteacher，

    he ought to know.

    Go and find work.

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