There's very little money in being a poet, (And I am one, so I would know it), We say we live off hope and dreams, But really, it's just rice and beans.
It's true, perhaps, that some do make it, Most often, though, are those who fake it, Who'll say that words do give them meaning! When in truth it's all artistic preening,
"But, oh how we suffer for our pages, That'll be read in wonder down the ages! Such triumphs are those that'll come our way-" But alas, not this triumphant day.
And as this world is run by gold, And not by poems left unsold, Unseen, unread, no one to hear, Let all the poets disappear.