The lady poet wrote real poetry
And got some real money for it.
We hear her story on computer.
There were other whispers on it,
Slowly rising to crowd’s murmur.
There is no real money for verse.
Poem is unreal by its definition,
Giving rise to defunct currency,
Useful to pack evening bananas.
A lady wrote hyphenated poems
On torn backs of used envelops.
Money would come post-humus.