Poetry loosed from the page.

On reams of paper the verbiage lay

Scribed day, by day, by day

Now they are risen on the air

Cast for all ears, each and every pair

Verbiage of meter, rhyme or verse, if you care

Sentiment condensed enough to taste

Smell, hear, see, touch like paste

You romantics sate on a feast prepared by lyricists

'Tis a special feast, indulge, in our worded pleasures

Everyone has it's own special, hidden treasure

Surely you're now into our gist

Among us there is no folk, Poe

Only a few named Joe

Titles of greatness we none hold

But we go forth to you with works bold

Peruse,'til the words ooze down your chin

Savor, don't try to hold them in

Poems not shared, my man it's a sin

Lest you be stricken with stuffy nose

Since risen on air

All poems must land upon ears that care

Spread them around for all to to be sated

Upon paper they will no longer lay