A Life In Three-Lined Poetry

A life in tree-lined poetry Once I was a cook on the high seas and worked long days seven days a week; Eater and Christmas meant more work baking cakes and baking bread. It was not only tiring but boring to seafarers like solid food that they are used to from home, which makes cooking into a job of blindfolded ennui. No wonder cooks turn to drink, the combination of long hours, infinitely making meat cakes and mash can send anyone into the abyss of insanity For my next job, I learned to cook books and found I had my latent talent how to make stories, to make the numbers tally; I could sit in a soft chair doing this. For a reason, lost in the fog of the past, I ended up a counsellor, a strange occupation, telling the unlucky not to drink, when at night enjoying a whisky or two. I was found out and sacked; how shocked they were the justly seniors took my license and nameplate on the door, hounded me out of town. There was one escape, back to sea and cooking stuff long were the hours when not reading self-help books until some said: "aren't you the one who got fired?