There's a statue
Of an author who wrote greats
Rats in its ground below
And of course, other lyricists too
Ruined by mould and mildew
Abandoned, like one of apostates
You're on your own now, you know,
In to the blue
Labyrinths hints, love and hate,
Written while drunk, sunk in thought
To tempt fate
From diddlers to dabblers,
And vice versa, a verse or two
Do be do be do
Worse oncoming, at any rate,
They're commercially out of date
At that time also
Their rhymes and level low
Though one has skills, more than few,
And a dream to fulfil,
Must be prepared to pay one's dues
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