Sad Song of the Struggling Poet.
I sold most of my stuff on eBay
the rest went in car boot sales.
I stopped going out and spending
once my gravy train came off its rails.
I can't even sell my body
unless someone needs spare parts.
I don't seem to have transferable skills
despite training in science not arts.
It's not romantic being poverty struck
a poet in her garret,
in fact I have to say it sucks
and I am sick as a parrot.
In all my favourite novels
geniuses such as me
don't have to live in hovels
much past chapter 3.
There's usually a billionaire
awaiting in the wings
to shower them with lots of cash
and other useful things.
But this is real life dammit
and I am stuck with that
and must look on the bright side
at least if I starve, I won't be dying fat.