Poets don't jog
You don't hear their footsteps coming from out of the morning fog
Not for them the red-faced gasping staggering slog
Poets don't jog
They'll still be in bed at midday sleeping like a log
Or face down on the sofa among the empties snoring like a hog
Poets don't jog
They're blearily looking through the kitchen for breakfast stuff to make their arteries clog
Or holding wine bottles up to the light in search of dregs so they can have the hair of the dog
Poets don't jog
