I don't know why I did it; let's call it therapy, I suppose I'm out of touch with modern poetry. Or just too old and grumpy for this modern stuff. I've tried to understand it, but haven't had much luck. I don't know why I do it; maybe it's a curse. But now and then, I need to rattle off another verse. I wake up of a morning, and lying there in bed, Start putting words together, somewhere in my head. I might stop it if someone tells me they're no good, Or I might slash their tires, and write another book.