Poets

Spring starts when a heartbeat's pounding
 When the birds can be heard above the reckoning carts doing some final accounting
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 Lava flowing in Superfarmer's direction
 He's been getting reprieve from the heat in the frozen food section, yeah
 
 Don't tell me what the poets are doing
 Don't tell me that they're talking tough
 Don't tell me that they're anti-social
 Somehow not anti-social enough, all right
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 And porn speaks to it's splintered legions
 To the pink amid the withered cornstalks in them winter regions, yeah
 
 While aiming at the archetypal father
 He says with such broad and tentative swipes, "Why do you even bother?", yeah
 Don't tell me what the poets are doing
 Those Himalayas of the mind
 Don't tell me what the poet's been doing
 In the long grasses over time
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 Don't tell me what the poets are doing
 On the street and the epitome of vague
 Don't tell me how the universe is altered
 When you find out how he gets paid, all right
 If there's nothing more that you need now
 The lawn cut by bare breasted women
 Beach bleached towels within reach for the women
 Got to make it, that'll make it by swimming