Singers don’t ask why they sing,
Nor painters doubt their coloring;
Dancers don’t complain of pain,
Composers do not hide in shame.
So why do we commiserate?
O, the suffering we endure
To craft a poem that is pure!
How lonely is our chosen path,
Tormented souls who swoon with wrath!
But nobody cares how we take to flight,
So just shut the **** up, and write.