I got a letter through the post today
That said I’d not won the competition.
The poem I submitted did not say
It well enough, in their wise opinion.
Maybe I’m not a poet after all.
But then again, I speak for me, not them.
I’m not a trader with a market stall.
Should I revise my thought, hire out my pen?
I don’t deny I’d rather that than sit
At office desk, a white collar robot.
But if I’m being honest, isn’t it
A case of bruised ego that I have got?
We paupers knock weakly at castle door,
Then trudge back to our cottages, footsore.
Fri 3 Nov 2006
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