Iím a writer, and so I get crapped on
By editors, agents and all.
They sneer at my prose and say that it shows
Iím blessed with less talent than gall.
My friends seem to think Iím a masochist;
My wife thinks ... nothing: sheís gone.
Thereís more pain than glory - the old writersí story.
So why do I keep plodding on?
I don't think I even like writing.
I like to have written, thatís all.
I donít make a mint when my work is in print
But I feel Iím a hundred feet tall.
I just want to make my voice heard;
To step from the crowd and then share
My laughter and tears, my hopes and my fears -
And pray I can make someone care.
Yes, that is my raison d'