Paulo Leminski, p.4


stop it
I admit
I am a poet

The morning rose
And showed the rose
To my face

Stop it
I admit
I am a poet

I am a prophet
love god only knows.


is a mad dog
that must be sat down,
beaten, first the whip
and then the cane
gored and burned
or else, really he could
the son-of-a-bitch
rain on our picnic