A poem's not a sentimental thing

A poem's not a sentimental thing.
It lives and breathes and walks on five good feet.
Sometimes it has a tendency to sing.
A stranger creature you will never meet.

It clothes itself in ornamental rags,
Of colors never seen by naked eye.
With nonchalance it's tail it often wags
To those who would be fooled by its disguise.

A poem once told me that it was blue.
I disagreed, and said, "No, you are red."
It shook it's head and said, "You misconstrue,
What's wrong with you, is not your brain well fed?"

I don't take kindly to poetic sass,
And getting angry, told it, "Up your ---!"