It's a painful vision
The idea that no one loves what you write
You are not with wit nor meaning.
Do we hear an objection?
Take care, what you say
The Muses are scaling your waste of breath
Is there a hard lump, now?
Just imagine that lump is a cancer,
Swallowing your small prescense in life
I found the arts dying in an alleyway
Mugged and shanked,
Poor, slanged souls
Crimes do not happen by accident
You, just don't forget
People die for lesser things than poetry and pride
