Green Poets and Self-Publishing Hams

Books don’t sell without a plan
Poetry doesn’t break this rule
Though you call me "Corporate Tool"
It’s marketing that makes you cool
And forms the famous poets’ clan
The clothes they wear, the things they say
It’s Hollywood, not words that rule
The poet who gives up the fight
Pretending money is a blight
While counting every coin and jewel
And tanning by an in-ground pool

So read your poetry at a slam
Then mail those poems off again
And if an editor cuts a line
Complaining that it’s not on time
Keep your jaw clamped like a clam
And get your work out in the light
(Or black, as ink looks when it’s right)
Nor cry when nasty critics pan
Your favorite poem as a crime
Just because you forced the rhyme
And meter through the final row

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