The scribbler was once, the brown cloak worn,
rhymed ornate with all possible force.
Pillows thought about the descendants were getting yourself ink
and wrote poems about how miserable life is eked out.
In the pub one night for poetry
was fairly noted by the police from the plow,
for really loud, just referring to the heavens,
I read him everything I wrote for posterity.
Not holding a grudge mind and despising the grace,
understood: the poet obliged for your verses suffer.
So almost half of my life lived, learning without end
to take for the mercy of God the beating of the Creator.