Hot on your own lusty heels
You trampled Elysian Fields
Like a false witness conceals

A Poet content with his skill
You held the muse against her will
Made mountains out of molehills

Your lust did not stop there
Every dream was a nightmare
But, ah- this is how a Poet prepares

Prone to exaggerate
Prone to exaggerate
It’s Poet’s Day

Every laugh, every cry
By exaggerating made you high
You might as well have told a lie

Like the theme of the Mare’s Nest
“excitement over what does not exist”
Is how the rest of the day was pissed

Pissing Off Early Today
Is English for P.O.E.T.’s Day
And my, does an Englishman exaggerate!
Prone to exaggerate
Prone to exaggerate
It’s Poet’s Day

A feeling of euphoria
Intoxicated by your gloria
A resurrected Victorian

Over wine you would compete
With other Poets on Mission St
Who could make words taste most sweet

Prone to exaggerate
Prone to exaggerate
It’s Poet’s Day