“Whilst often I do have the guts to write
Outrageous verse to pin for all to see
I sometimes do wish that on such a night
There might yet be some guts left within me
To write something that just you’d understand
Something that speaks and signs a tune unread
Tales of a time of no such “upper hand”
Notes of life within those once thought dead
And something realer than this pretend verse shows
In all its mad combining and design
Song text written down for modern freak shows
A paean for a thing that isn’t mine.”

Wrote the poet to the singer, who was in bed,
And who sighed in annoyance, and left him on read.