20180924.0430

I know not why I little songs still sing
When I do fear they do no little thing,
Nor anything at all. No joy they bring
In making them. No benefit they bear
In being read, no notion that they care
Who them do see of which I am aware.
I still press on, though; I’ve no other way,
And even if few care what I might say,
And even if I hate myself for play
When so much work does e’er remain to do,
And time not at it is time I soon rue,
I think I must this project carry through
Of writing verse in Stupid God’s despite--
I’ve nothing else with which to make wrong right.