Poetic
Widow
She
said,
I'm sick of you just sitting there
staring into
space
You haven't shaved or brushed you hair
you're
a bloody disgrace.
You're miles away, you haven't heard
a thing I said
it's all that rotten poetry
it's
gone right to your head.
I can't
get anything done
I ask you where and when
all
I get in return
have you pinched my pen?
But
I consider myself a martyr
battling enormous odds
trying
to spread Eric's gospel
to those poor unfortunate sods.
Poetry,
Oh poetry
you got me in this mess
you fed me all that rubbish
and
my greedy heart said yes.
A poet
Laureate you said, riches galore
make a million,
franchise this stuff
they'll be knocking on the door
Well
the only door banging I hear
is my misses, coming dear
and
she's got jobs galore
so put away your pen Eric
and
dream of the good days of yore.
Of
poets such as Shakespeare
Byron and more
I bet
their bloody misses
didn't bang on the door.
(C) Copyright 1999
TIC
All Rights Reserved
