Peter Jones, Oswaldtwistle
Poetry, they say, is a dying art.
Most poets don’t arrive until they depart.
But I just cannot contemplate
Having as long as that to wait.
What good if my words are read with wonder,
When I’m already six feet under.
I don’t wish to die at ninety-two,
Not having received my first review.
I would like to see my first work in print,
Before I’m old, or dead, or skint.
“Publish and Damned”, goes the patter.
I’ll take the former, but not the latter.
Why can’t we achieve immortality
Without dying first, it makes sense to me.
It would be nice to receive some acclaim for my toil,
Before I shuffle off this mortal coil.
Surely it won’t appear brazen or brash,
If I hope for fame, and a little cash.
If other art-forms can reap earthly rewards,
Like singers and actors, then why not the bards?
Is it too much to ask that I may make a living,
Doing something that pleasure, to people, is giving?
Is it so wrong, a member I don’t want to be
Of the famous, “Dead Poets Society”?