I can't help it, I must write
all the morning, noon and night!
It's a frightful thought--addiction, work not play!

Lord, please help me take a break;
I've been here since eighty-eight
and I haven't had a bite to eat since nine.

Loved ones check out institutions
while I ponder absolutions
as I pull my hair in search of perfect line

breaks.

O, a poet I must be!
There's no other life for me!
No, I don't think I could ever give it up.

When I die, quill in my hand,
lay me down, strike up the band,
then let mourners wake on ink and tasty scup!