Write what you know, the sages insist
But they don’t understand the storytelling gift
They haven’t, not once, heard a dragon in their mind
Or seen rainbow-hued poo from a unicorn’s behind
They have not felt the touch of a silken gold gown
Or the lash of the scorn of a man with a crown
They have not held a sword that sings in their hand
Nor had legions of lizard men at their command
So the sages can write from their narrow small cages
But we’ll fly with dragons and discourse with mages
Because at the end we would die of frustration
If we could not show worlds from our imagination
Imaginary Worlds
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