A poet laureate I’ve never sought to be;
“America’s poet? Hell no, that’s not for me.
Let all awards go by the board,
False victory I can’t afford;
I just write poems the best I can
To be my own poetic man.

I do not enter contests, no;
The praise of others–let it go.
If others like the things I write,
I love them for their selfish sight.
I’m final judge of every line,
And in the end I’m wholly mine.

The Poet’s Market saw I the other day;
Its “sample poems” were things I’d throw away;
Not poems at all, but poor bad prose;
To read them you must hold your nose;
No music for the ear or mind,
And dark ideas for the blind.

Let them take theirs, a separate road I see;
“America’s poet?” Hell no, that’s not for me.
Let all aclaim add to their fame
As they play Peter Keating’s game,
While I write poems the best I can
To be my own poetic man.