Our Master is a Slave Driver

 

I post a poem once a day

That's three six five a year

How do my poor old neurons cope?

They want to talk (lend ear)

 

Neurons here dear reader

He wonders how we cope

In truth he's just a slave driver

We think he's into dope

 

Street-side they call it 'Poet's Dream'

A chemical amide

To us it should be 'Poet's Doom'

He wants his kick, his ride

 

My neurons keep insisting

I go to rehab pronto

Give us a rest Oh Master

But I just do not want to

 

I need my fix....

 

We'll go on strike.....

 

Don Matthews September 2019