To publish my poor, rustic rhyme
(Assuming that I had the time)
Would puff me up with poet\'s pride
In place of dream girl at my side
A thorn would pierce me through, instead
And dreams of grandeur in my head
Would drown her out and then replace
My goddess girl, and in her place
False friends, would flatter and kow-tow
Exclude my love, until somehow
Her inspiration, it would die
Then Muse, who\'d filled my soul and sky
Would leave me in my garret room
Where I\'d grow grey from grief and gloom
That’s why I share with you alone
My poet friends, lest I be prone
To poet\'s pride: the writer\'s curse
(That need to publish, poet\'s nurse)
Of fame, I’m fearful, and too old;
Let’s leave it to the young; they’re bold!