They Say

They say that poets are crazy
And often off their meds.
They say that poets are lazy
And ought to be working instead.

Such poets sit around thinking
Of making words sound right,
Without an apparent inkling
That surely it’s impolite

To rearrange a sentence
Until it beats like a drum.
You might think I’m due for repentance,
But that day never will come.

For the words in my head
Insist that I write
Till my fingers turn numb.