A poet is a tortured soul
And while the day is dawning
The words are spinning round his head
And he must get up from his bed
To capture them on paper,
Before it’s really morning.

The poet’s wife is tortured too.
She goes to sleep and then
He won’t just slip out to the loo
Then snuggle up, as others do.
He’ll wake her up at half past two
And ask her for a pen.

A poet is a soul apart
Who doesn’t crave possessions.
Provide him paper, pen and ink
And a pub where he can muse and think
And drink, throughout his ego trips,
Neuroses and depressions.

So that’s the world of poetry,
Endemic in my life.
And as I spout my thoughts in rhyme,
Which I compose at any time,
What I claim is a talent
Is an illness, says my wife.