I Love Penning Stuff

One might say I"ve written a whole heap of stuff
Of the sort literary critics see as slipshod and rough
But with a penning addiction i keep penning on
And today i will pen more since yesterday's gone.

I used to daydream that i might be a poet
Or a person worthy of some literary note
But few make a fortune in the Wordsmith trade
And like 'tis said poets are born not made.

Far north in Duhallow i daydreamed of renown
In Spring in the old fields west of Millstreet Town
Wildflowers were in bloom and the landscape looked green
And the robin sang on the hedge by the bohreen.

The beauty of Nature for all to enjoy
And i have loved Nature since i was a boy
The blackbird he piped with his bright yellow bill
And the dipper he sang in the stream by the hill.

Jingles to Mother Nature i often did write
And to myself only them i did recite
But even back then i already knew
That writers are born and poets are few.

Some tell me i ought to give writing away
But to their advice heed i never do pay
I love penning stuff of that why should i lie
And as a poetaster i live and as a poetaster i'll die.