Sometimes I think to myself And then I regret it Sometimes I wonder whether it's worth it These pages of poems I write every month Just for the chance that maybe I'll dance with the near scrape of death And be nearing my end, when suddenly somebody finds my notepad and pen And they say to the press "Hey this kid's impressive, He's written a thousand poems that are really depressing" And the Sun picks them up and they publish them all As I perish and know that my legacy stalls In the hands of those others who wield my new fame And decide they can use it for greater acclaim So they buy better treatment to make sure I live So I'll keep writing poems for the public to give 0 ***** about That's the problem with writing is nobody reads Unless it's amazing or on their news feed And even if that they won't read it for long As David Jones proved the perfect poem's a Line of A few words Spaced out For no reason