Poetry Is For Losers

Poetry is for losers
For losers have nothing to lose.
Winners have nothing to rail against,
the status quo will do fine, thank you.

But for those who stare from below:
The inferorum masses waiting,
praying for their erstwhile messiahs,
while the money flows all around them.

These losers: whose words are such
to cast like dice the fate of nations,
to nudge and herd the minds of many
like electrons through a copper wire;

transforming culture, accelerating evolution
like some geriatric melange addict
or an otherworldly black monolith.
That is their mandate and their task.

These losers. These losers.
They, the dregs of the draught;
the accumulated spittle of society
shaped into a form suitable for a spark

to set off its mass like an atom bomb.
Let them die with some measure of fame,
let them live with some measure of claim
to the future of this world under construction.

Poets come from this lowest lot,
where reality slaps them more often than not.