I wasn't poor, being not rich
Life was fine, thanks to hope
All that changed, owing to muse,
With one ‘novel’ passion pure
Affairs I had, five of them
Unknown to the lovers of books,
Enamoured not by publishers dull
Manuscripts of those make pillows
In my bed to cause nightmares,
With hope dead, I can’t dream
Now I’m poor, robbed of hope.
