The Tragedy of the Poet.

Each morning I wake up and think,

What good would life now bring about?

Each morning eyes release the blocks,

What good would poetry bring about?
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Just some fancy words of language,

Just some dreamy, yearning thoughts,

Just some lines to make impressions,

Just some verses to pass some time.
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Oh boy, you write so bad, so bland,

Oh utter nonsense, waste of ink!

Go find a life, oh sing some hymns,

For your sweet verses don’t even rhyme.
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Poetry’s not gonna feed your family,

Poetry’s not gonna find you cash,

Poetry’s just gonna lead you astray,

You’re just gonna sit with a beard and a pen.
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Don’t weep you’ve still got some time,

Grow up and get a job like mine,

Get money, girls and whole of world!

This writing’s going to make you whine.
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This world ain’t philosophic anymore,

You’re going to die whilst young are dreams

You think from head now, tough and rough!

Go get some vices, snatch your share now.
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Oh Sir, I do write for you all,

Oh Sir… No you won’t get it now,

Oh Sir, I do hope that one day,

May life is at par with you all.
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Poetry’s going to earn me the hearts!

Poetry’s going to pierce through the soul!

Poetry’s going to make us all anew!

Each of the days, we’ll besiege a universe!
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Alas! You are lost in the world,

Alas! You’re faking this realism,

Alas! You’re at war with reality itself!

Green’s not the grass, just the bucks for you.
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Never have you smelt fresh ink?

Never have you felt old paper?

Never you have been in the whirl-

Pool of the ecstatic realms of a poet.
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I hope you could eat all the money,

I hope you could love any one of the girls,

I hope you could breathe the whole of the world,

I hope your poetry does rhyme and rhyme about.