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!
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Author:
Blue-eyed Bolla (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: July 14th, 2018 05:08
- Comment from author about the poem: For all those similarly afflicted...
- Category: Humor
- Views: 38
- Users favorite of this poem: Noah
Offline)
Comments2
Nice one... you must be spoiled for choice on which piece to publish each day if you write so many. Mine are all clogging up the hard drive on this laptop... password protected. I shall print them off some day.
Many thanks DA. Yeah, I seem to be working on at least one new poem each day. I think you should print off all your work from your laptop and create a folder of work to perform at a local open mike. Again, many thanks for your feedback, dude. 😎reach
I have printed off all my poems and my elder granddaughter wants them when I am at one with My spirit.
Good write.
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