I only wrote about impressive things
Like gods and wars and nations’ prideful roots
Heroic tales to tickle queens and kings
Recited o’er the lilt of lyres and lutes
And thusly Fame and Fortune knew me well
For plebes rejoiced with every song I’d quill
They’d buy most any word I’d care to sell
Til coffers, and my ego, got their fill
But grandeur can accurse one to dementia
Convincing him to think his waste not foul
With formulaic plotlines in absentia
I now write only of my stomach’s growl;
Though my career is at an all-time low, it
Feels good to be an onion bagel poet