I can't be golden all the time.
But always does the word out cry
there is in poetry a "try"
So so I do my very best
not quite as good as all the rest...
but when I die, I'll be of worth,
to all the worms beneath the earth.
From out of my limber mind does sprout
the lyric verse I long to shout.
But soon cold matter it will be,
and worms will munch it happily.