And What Have We Here

And what have we here but one more slipshod rhyme
From an ageing Poetaster decades past his prime
Someone ought to tell him for to call it a day
That his pen and his paper he should put away.

Yet out in the garden the grey shrike thrush sing
The beauty of Nature is a wonderful thing
On second thought the Poetaster should have the right
On the mysteries of Nature for to feel inspired to write.

Though poets are born and not made happens to be true
One ought to give credit where credit is due
And credit the Poetaster for having a go
Though wealth and fame he is not destined to know.

In a World of poetasters the poets are so rare
Not everyone can be a Burns, a Mangan or Clare
But to make up the human family it takes every kind
And like they say Poets are rare and hard to find.

And what have we here but an ordinary bloke
Who can laugh at himself and can laugh at a joke
An ageing Poetaster his prime years long gone
But credit him as one who keeps on keeping on.