An intellectual I profess not to be…

Whoever got the idea I was an intellectual?

More so a pseudo-intellectual, one that is very ineffectual,

But if I were to look deep into my psyche yes the actual,

I may find that my intellect is more than that of being most punctual…

A punctual intellect you ask what that may be,

One that is always there when needed, when I want to see,

The power of the brain, the brain on drugs, sizzling in the pan, it is my plan to be…

Is intellect a pre-requisite for writing poetry?

If so then my poetry should be flushed down the drain of life,

As with so many others writing from the point of intellect,

My pointed little head, with the dunce cap that fits just fine,

Can never measure up to the writes of the intellectuals in the line…

So if I am not an intellectual, what does that make me?

Am I but another wheel in the cog of life’s machinery?

Or do I exist merely to entertain; my humor is my life,

And Nature a special part of my life as well, bringing to you all, the greenery,

Of the specific area that I do write of and try to describe the scenery…

As an intellect without the brains to know left from right or right from wrong,

I move along through life as if I did in some way actually belong,

And as I have stated before, not here, but way back,

I am not hungry, nor am I poor, but I will work for sex from someone in a thong…

                                © ed ~ 8/12/04