Lad, poets write of love and loss
In sober verse as makes no sense;
It’s sugar-coated candyfloss!
Truth is, they’ve no experience!
That ‘starving artist’ line’s a fake;
They’re, most of ’em, just bags of wind.
Their blank verse gives me belly-ache,
And half of them have never sinned!
Son, I’ve earned more inside a year
Than fifty poets. God be blessed,
I hosed the lot on girls and beer
And squandered nearly all the rest.
And now it’s gone, who’s left to care?
Drink up! Before the Reaper calls.
Ignore the green-eyed monster’s stare —
There’s damn few inns in Hades’ halls!
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