Where will the poets go when war starts . Where will words hide to become lost art . I can imagine these things being worlds apart , I can’t see them being our last open thoughts of how we often fought . No country or money could back what we sought . For our nerves and verbs can never be bought . Just a way with words that should be openly taught . A way such with words how would we ever be caught . A poet is more than a loaded shifting heart . We are more like a embolden drifting shark , looking for ways to make our mark . We write and recite the wars before they start and win them in hindsight by our insight of knowing how to fight .