When I am dead and blood is cold
And my poor rhymes remain unsold
Please bundle up and prep for pyre
Pathetic verse unfit for buyer
And all I’ve writ I bid thee burn
Feed to the fire, since rhyme won’t earn
One cent – or should I say one pound?
When I am deep below the ground
Go to my garret when I’m dead
Beside my invalidic bed
Snatch sack of stanzas stacked so neat
Five metres high! ‘Twas no mean feat!
Unwrap and read some – all way through
If you can spare an hour or two
You’ll see how stubbornly I spent
My life on rhyme – I was Hell-Bent!