It's Different For Us Poets.

The early bird,

 the alert and spritely riser,

the get-up-and-go-getter,

ever eager to be first on the scene,

ever enthusiastically springing out,

 will undoubtedly do well,

will  succeed in this world,

will thrive and prove a credit,

will please ..... mother;

 but don't expect poetry.

Lying on in bed,

ablutions indefinitely postponed,

just lying there, rotting,

putrefying in purposelessness,

a true if listless sacrifice

on that ramshackle altar 

to the gods, the worthless gods,

of good-for-nothingness,

this is the degree of dissipation

and daily devotion to wastrel ways

needed for the successful birth of a poem,

for the birth, the dirty squalid birth,

of truly proper poetry,

of poetry that can ever hope

to be called respectable.