Poets are damned to live and die
beneath this sacrilegious sky.
They pen their petty piece of rhyme
They’re slaves, so they must steal the time
to pour themselves upon the page.
(They couldn\'t work without a wage!)
They hate to focus on themselves.
Their lives lie shattered on sad shelves.
They seek some kindly eye to see
(a heart in love with poetry!)
A kindred kind with self-same soul
who’ll criticise, and yet console.
The poets, when they breathe no more,
(while oceans seethe and nations war)
leave verse (its value may be none!)
to live, when they are dead and gone.