Pension Plan
There is no pension for poets
No pay in either pound or pence.
So why do we scratch and do it
When it makes neither wage nor sense?
The words of our lives may not flow yet
But at least we don't sit on the fence.
Most rhymes end up in the toilet
Unless there is beauty in tense.
On those days I dare not spoil it
Though it's not going to pay my rents.
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