Draft 5

Well all the poets I've read always said
there's a magic in poverty
Walk the streets in rags carrying paper bags
might just lead you to sanity
And I thought them the truth so I followed suit
and I spent like my pocket was burning
Now I'm hungry and tired and meekly attired
and too sick to even start earning

Oh, if only I'd remembered that the poets of old,
Those English ones with their love of glory
Were all rich kids, spoiled more than bold,
In their warm, grand houses dreaming up things gory;
Those french ones who did indeed end up poor
Had riches thrown at them, but spurned 'em for spite
And the one young lad who survived the chore
Spurned poetry, and chose noon rather night.

It should be a point to be made, you see,
Don't make young boys dream of glory
If they can't ill afford Pegasi to fly
Or even horses to jaunt or ride
And are stuck with donkeys that don't walk much
Like the one in Pooh,
And then won't be shocked as such,
When they find that metaphors don't rule the world
And that a great rhyme can't fix life.