I wasn’t poor, being not rich,
Life was fine, thanks to hope.
All that changed, owing to muse,
With one ‘novel’ passion pure.
Affairs I had, ten of them,
Unknown to the lovers of books,
Cold-shouldered by publishing folk,
Manuscripts those ten make pillows.
In my bed to cause nightmares,
With hope dead, I can’t dream,
Now I’m poor, robbed of hope.