I write poetry, gentlemen, I write poetry,
but please don’t call me poetess;
I swig my wine like the bricklayers do
and I have an assistant who talks to herself.
This world’s a strange place;
things happen, gentlemen, that I don’t disclose;
they build cases, for example, yet never build homes
for the poor who can’t afford them.

And old maids are always having it out with their dogs,
married men with their mistresses,
yet no one says anything to the brutal tyrants.
And we read about the deaths and flip the pages,
and the people hate us and we say: that’s life,
and they step on our necks and we don’t get up.

All this happens, gentlemen, and I must say it.