Subtle stanzas seeping with lovey dovey;

every poem boringly like the last one.

Now I know why nobody bought my cardboard

brown paper wrappings.

Lying under newspaper blankets trying

hard to stop the flea-ridden thoughts that come to

scratch me. How could destiny be so gloating?

Pitiful writer...

Laugh, you would-be! Mock me and throw your old fruit.

Call me has-been. Never forget why all old

poets suffer: Modern day living has no

time for the Classics!