What do most writers pine for, to be read, and read widely,
That books cost money to print, prevent the idea fire spreading wildly.
That's the reason the middlemen- the publishers were born,
In the age of screens and tablets, their relevance is all but gone.
I can now download from libgen, or read online at SciHub,
Drink from the philosophical fountain, while seated in a cafe or pub.
The knowledge has flown from cages, I no longer need the author's consent,
They would be happy with the arrangement, only the publishers resent.
When I pen a poem daily, leaning on the shoulders of giants,
Do I need to credit everyone? I'm undecided and defiant.
I may sincerely try to recollect, but there are many more unconscious sway,
So should I compensate the publishers, who, anyway, peanuts authors pay.
Consent, credit, or compensation, the genuine authors don't care a bit,
You can train AI on their texts all you want; humans already pilfer without regret.
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