That is how our poet draws,
One line there, another stroke elsewhere,
A beautiful tune or a short story written well,
It was in his look that said `talent must go somewhere`.
As rough storms hit him
And his muse was sold to some booze,
What our poet did,
Was he fell asleep and let his pen loose.
Another season came,
No sense of dilusion,
Sinking was the answer
Yet a terrible solution.
Our poet was stoned,
Nothing moved his soul,
His time was fame`s goal.