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Poetry may not bring you money,

No matter if it’s REALLY funny,

     Yet dying poor is not a crime,

     If your epitaph is all in rhyme.

 

Beyond this world I think are many

Poets who never made a penny.

    Some may have died in dire austerity

     With poems preserved for all posterity.

 

So ponder when pen next meets page 

The words you write in jest or rage,

     And consider those on whom they fall

     As through your poems they later trawl.