What matter for my success or lack of it since I must die anyway
And my biological clock is ticking on I've known a better day
And what use now in any regret since regret is a waste of time
In the many hours I've seemingly wasted in the penning of reams of rhyme
Years ago as a younger person when I lived near Millstreet Town
I often had these foolish daydreams of literary renown
But daydreams from reality in distance far away
And time brings us some wisdom as some are known to say
And yet I go on penning rhyme though bugger all my gain
I have to be an addictive rhymer for how else can I explain
That I should persevere at such a thing when some close friends say to me
'Tis time that you tried your hand at something new and leave the poets to write poetry
But if I told them that I'd give rhyming away then that would be a lie
Suppose I will be penning stuff until the day I die.
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