Poets and prophets are stricken with poverty.
Post-modernism is all about profits.
Quit counting paper! On your street, there’s probably,
At least a couple of starving prophets.

I’ve reserved a place for myself on the corner,
In a cardboard box, with a dumpster near.
Sir, are you a registered organ donor?!
Is there anyone willing to lend me an ear?

I’m pregnant with poetry, anything will help!
I’ve sold my soul into prostitution!
If you ignore me, I’ll have to poison myself,
Inhaling toxins of urban pollution!

Sir, I implore you! My words are orphans.
I can’t support them on my petty pension.
Please, kind people, donate your organs!
Poets are starving for some attention!