A
Strange
Thing
It
Is
To
Write,
To
Fashion
Words
Day
And
Night,
A
Constant
Story
In
The
Mind’s
Sight.
A
Reckless
Need,
A
Cherished
Seed,
Placed
In
The
Soil
Of
Obscure
Toil,
Unsought,
Unwanted
On
The
Mile
High
Slush
Pile
Of
Lowly
Staff.
I have
To
Laugh
At
My
Folly
And
Dull
Wit
To
Keep
On
Trying
To
Fit,
But
I Can’t
Quit,
No
Matter
What
Little
Success
Comes
Of
It.