I wasn’t poor, being not rich
Life was fine, thanks to hope
All that changed, owing to muse,
With one ‘novel’ passion pure
Affairs I had, twelve of them
Unknown to the lovers of books,
Cold-shouldered by publishing folk
Manuscripts those twelve make pillows
In my bed to cause nightmares,
With hope dead, I can’t dream
Now I’m poor, robbed of hope.
----------------------------------------
This was penned before I placed the 'twelve' in the public domain as free ebooks https://g.co/kgs/P5jazk