Poet Lariat of the Proletariat
I am the poet lariat
Of the news cycle
Bad as biker
Of the proletariat
And their hang ups
Of awe kinds
That’s the catch
Amid heir
Having gone native
On the nativists
And awe those under standing
Hoarse
As a poet with no name
Barring rhymes with orange
Uddering the loudest
Unherd
Even in efface of gallows
Humor
As noose to me
Still
Carrying on
What might be left
Of me
And enduring right
