Arietta

Some of us are silent poets,
And some spill guts on the guttered streets
In ritualistic thoroughbred rants,
In sonic booming decibel-bursts,
Competing with the other riffers--
(That snare drum's rattle is less annoying,
Yet there can be but one true prophet!)--
To catch the mellow rube off guard,
Yank him into tormented spheres,
Share daft dimensions and dementias,
Grift a buck, beg for mercy,
And if not mercy, then resignation.