The sentimental poet lifts his eyes
Towards a heaven that’s beyond the reach
Of mortal flesh, and so his tears and sighs
Unnoticed in scheme of things, beseech
Posterity, no less, such is his plight.
And so he takes his trusty pen once more
And with a trembling hand, begins to write.
His anguish shows in every seeping pore.
A torrent of emotion starts to flow.
His fevered brow distorts in furrows deep.
His passion speeds although his thoughts come slow,
And now his eyes grow wild, he will not sleep,
But spend his night caught in the sweetest trap
Then, come the dawn, sees that his writing’s crap.