All things – all – must end
Not just good, but bad as well
So here I am swallowing hope
To cure my belly’s new personal hell
For poems have reduced to mere points
And the poets who paint them just pawns
Compelled to take drags of this joint
For a prayer that our work carries on
Neighborhoods turn into ghettos
Victorian houses accosted by ramblers
Starving artists must don their stilettos
And we stay because we’re all gamblers