Sorry Pen

For what do you write, sad poet?

For whose pleasures does your sorry pen toil?

What words do you think will affect, dear poet,

The deathly ring on our soil?

For whom do you watch and listen, old man?

There is no longer any innocence to admire,

All the little virgins in our lands, old man,

Have long since let their hearts tire

Your poems speak of love and camaraderie,

But when, O father 

Did you last witness a truth instead of trickery?

Is it not, dear father, 

Your very own children who now lay sick in misery?

Your thoughts smack of beauty,

And the reader must watch and listen,

For a love neither true or plenty,

In the words of a single man, lost to his poetry.