A poet's work is oft unloved
Or paid unwell by god and man
For who can love a simple rhyme
That lingers on like tuneless ditty
For a little bitty bit of time?
Stuck in the mind the verses wander
Ungloved. They poke and prod
Like physic hand, and grumble
Of love, or hate, or mortal span.
I'm sick of it, but can't forget.
It hangs on like a tiresome debt.