The compulsion is in me to write every day
Though little of value in what I have to say.
My compulsive addiction I cannot seem to fight
I rhyme every day and I rhyme every night
Addicted to doggerel, to rhyme and to song
Sometimes I feel with me there is something wrong.
My addiction compels me for to write some more
Pages of stuff by the ream and the score
Perhaps I’ll be rhyming even at death’s door
To many I must seem a silly old bore.
My addiction it surely won’t land me in jail
But for one to succeed so many have to fail
And though for my writing efforts I have nothing to show
I do not feel unhappy that success I won’t know.

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