I swear by Shelley’s steely soul,
as poets, we have ups and downs.
Some lows, some highs, some times of trouble.
(Some bastard’s bound to burst your bubble!)
Sometimes, we’re high as Blackpool\'s \'steeple,\'
and poets can be placid people,
until some sad, sick sons of bitches
unpick from poet’s cloak the stitches!
I guess we’re only killing time,
just turning heartbreak into rhyme.
Yet, sorrow, in our souls is sowing
a mustard seed of faith that’s growing!
I know our days, by fate, are numbered,
and when, like Shelley, we have slumbered,
we’ll have no poet eulogise
our lives – nor sweetly poetise.
And yet, by Shelley\'s soul, I swear:
lost legacy is such small beer,
as long as love, once lost, is lying
beside me, on my day of dying.