Sic Semper (slight return)

[munkinhead]

If I wasn't a poet,
a cowboy maybe,
a marine with waterproof chow,
I'd tent up my cape
and choose cherry or grape
and not eat this cold hobo stew

If I could ride fences,
or dig shallow trenches,
I'd get out of this line of fire
and put down this pen
to forget where I've been,
but I'd still dream of cold hobo stew

If I weren't thin and drawn,
or worse, weak and wan,
I'd likely sign up right away
but I'm no friend of fences,
I just ride park benches,
for handouts, as most poets do