Please reader, hear my plea
and let go of my poems and me,
I can no longer play the lyre
For my situations' oh so dire,
These are matters of the mind,
The like of which, I must say,
I've seen nothing of the kind.
So heed my words and leave today,
For this old jester's pen has dried,
His tears have gone unseen,
And in his heart he has demeaned
Each and every word he's tried
To write with a once ardent heart,
From all of which he must depart.