I wonder why I can’t write
A work to inspire acclaim!
It isn’t that I’m not that bright,
Or have no talent to my name.
With creativity I’m more than blessed.
Wisdom floods right out my ears.
Yet my writing never quite impressed.
My lack of fame brings me to tears.
But I finally realised what is wrong;
The final answer to my wish;
The temptations of wine, women and song
I’ve too long given a miss.
Think of Byron. Keats and Shelley,
Not to forget the Bard of Avon.
Oh vices, they had aplenty,
Though their public faces were graven.
And so to be a wealthy author,
I must turn my hand to sin.
To debauched dens I’ll sally forth, or
Just throw my writing in the bin.