Dead Poets Society

We poets are teachers

The artists, the leaders

The dreamers, the weavers

Of minds of the infinite

Wisdom conceivers

The gods that you worship

Were made in our image

The heroes you envy

Are born of our wrath

To walk in the steps

Of our off-beaten path

We are mythical martyrs

On whimsical quests

To tickle your fancies

And beat in your chests

When you lock it away

We are there with the key

And a piping hot cup

Of divine empathy

For we feast on your pain

And we dine on your pleasure

We bask in the sun

Of the stormiest weather

And none may deny us

The power we hold

Not an ocean of greed

Nor a mountain of gold

Can stop us or touch us

For we own the skies

The angels you honor

Composed of our songs

Yes we poets are muses

The Tantalus juices

The shapers, the wakers

Of your inner-peace in this life

We are makers