Bücher von N. E. Frye

I don't know why I did it; let's call it therapy,I suppose I'm out of touch with modern poetry.Or just too old and grumpy for this modern stuff.I've tried to understand it, but haven't had much luck.I don't know why I do it; maybe it's a curse. But now and then, I need to rattle off another verse.I wake up of a morning, and lying there in bed,Start putting words together, somewhere in my head.I might stop it if someone tells me they're no good,Or I might slash their tires, and write another book.