I've done more than my share of scribbling I've written reams of stuff
And some of it seems quite okay whilst much of it seems rather rough
But I'll be writing verses until the day I die
For if I told you otherwise I'd be telling a lie.
One of those not seen as worthy for literary critics to criticize
My work looked on as inferior in their discerning eyes
My verse numbers keep on growing they multiply like flies
By the amount I have written myself I even surprise.
I never had this great wish as some do that I should die brave and young
That by future generations my praises would be sung
By those who worship dead heroes in the bigger World out there
I'd rather live to die old though unsung with times gray in my hair.
I have penned so much stuff none of which I can sell
The stuff critics refer to as mere doggerel
And though my better days in life may be long gone
I am not a quitter I will keep on penning on.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem