The reason I don't like poets, is that they always lie to you
In every little syllable, in every single haiku.
They say that that snow is always pure white, and grass is always so green.
It doesn't look like that to me, in any landscape I've ever seen.
I know this sounds rather cynical, but let me tell you it really is true,
The ground is never straight brown, and the sky is never really blue
I think they've got trouble with colors, and something's wrong with their eyes,
If they could see how the world really looked, it would come as a great surprise.
Oh my gosh, I guess I'm a hypocrite, I'm sorry to say this to you,
For in the denouncing of poets, I suppose I've become one too.