Random Apparitions - N. E. Frye - Bog

I don't know why I did it; let's call it therapy,
I suppose I'm out of touch with modern poetry.
Or just too old and grumpy for this modern stuff.
I've tried to understand it, but haven't had much luck.

I don't know why I do it; maybe it's a curse.

But now and then, I need to rattle off another verse.
I wake up of a morning, and lying there in bed,
Start putting words together, somewhere in my head.

I might stop it if someone tells me they're no good,
Or I might slash their tires, and write another book.