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Poets do not believe in beauty anymore.

My friend is a psychologist, he says
nobody understands him, and complains
how impatient waiters have become these days.

Every priest has bad thoughts
and every vicar sins
but I knew of a virtuous prostitute in love
with the impotent milkman of the neighbourhood.

Policemen have their dreams of freedom,
and thieves are asking for respect.
Nurses want to be looked after,
Samaritans are longing to be heard.

Craft pilots just want to walk back home,
and miners,
miners want their ashes to be spread
on the bluest and widest of Pacifics.