Saturday night in a wasted life

How many wakes may I hold
For a feeling long since passed
Its all the same, the fragmented sky

The acrid smell of smoked rye
Only the whiskey tastes a lil dry
For I am a poet doncha know it

The vanity of a rhymester
The talent of a Trollope
I am a poet doncha know it

Hold on tight; don’t let the moment pass
This one and so many like it
Its all just banal and crass

Why should I wonder
After all its all just a blunder
All my being bent on plunder

For I am a poet doncha know it
The vanity of a rhymester
The talent of a Trollope