Another Useless Collection of Words

In a poet's own mind
He thinks he's the kind
Of person we'd all like to know
With a good taste for words
Though, some may be absurd
To them, they are sweeter than snow
But what use is a poet
In the world as we know it
Their words are worth less than a cent
When it comes to the time
No one listens to rhymes
The words never can say what they meant
Though I seem strong at heart
And my pencil is sharp
My tongue always seems to fall short
It seems everyone knows it
So, what good is a poet
Unless you like things of that sort.