My Problems

My problems as a writer is I've written too much stuff And much of it is slipshod and looking rather rough Just an ageing Poetaster is all I can wish to be And penning stuff a hungry game for a scribbler like me I must be quite addictive for why would I go on Penning more and more stuff when my better days are long gone The Schoolboy of the fifties has known a far better day The passing of the Seasons have left me bald and gray I've written about Nature where beauty it is rife And I've written about people and I've written about life The literary critics out there I have failed to impress Yet everytime I'm penning I feel such happiness I will not give up on writing of that why should I lie And I'll be penning doggerel until the day I die.