Every morning I wake, suicidal.
I thrall to get up out of my soft bed.
For no sleep can give me my hopeful rest.
I think I owe a great debt to my goals
As I watch those my age live, rich and blessed.
To my art I had given heart and soul
And I wished for a small sum from my test
And though what I wrote were the very best
I am poor, yet heaven's shores I shall go.
Where is my income from my great wisdom?
And am I truly kind, or am I wise?
Did I only write what were great white lies?
Live I do, seeing the youth marching on;
One day, like them, fortune I'll gain and fly.