Poets

Her dad was a poet, at least that’s what he told her.
He said he’d written all the great poems in the world.
My girl, she believed him, she wanted to grow closer.
She started to rhyme all her words.

“Daddy!“, she said, showing him her work,
“It’s loud and tickles and rhymes!”
“Honey“, he answered, undisturbed.
“These poems look so similar to mine.

They’re furios and happy, loud and silent,
I can hear every word that you write.
But honey, you know, that’s not the answer.
You can’t steal all of my rhymes!“

My girl, she started crying and hating herself.
How could she do all of this to her dad?
He looked at her ashamed and she shamed herself.
My girl, oh she felt so bad.

Her dad, being smart, sat down on a table
And wrote down, what his girl just had said.
Her dad, seeking fame, saw flows and rhythms
He knew they were far from bad.

Her dad, he continued to listen.
And, being cruel, took every of her rhymes.
He went on to publish rhythms
And told the world “These are all mine!“

My girl was the daughter of a writer.
He wrote all the great poems in the world.
But deep down in her mind she fought knowledge,
That he got famous by using her words.