I thought of writing sentimental verses;
They told me that's the way to boil the pot.
This option led to ruin
At the hands of Rod McKuen,
Who had too much of what I hadn't got.
I thought of writing novels for the masses;
They told me those were eminently saleable.
This seemed the very thing,
Till I found that Stephen King
Had cornered all the cash available.
I thought of writing lyrics full of passion;
They told me I might prosper in that line.
But I met a crafty foe in
A cad named Leonard Cohen,
Whose lyrics were superior to mine.
I thought I'd let myself mature, like Milton,
Then sell my epics to the highbrow set.
But the dignity of age
Hasn't helped me sell a page,
So now I publish gratis, on the Net.
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