Some people, they, are born to run
But, baby, that’s not me.
Of all the things under the sun
Writing, I was born to be.

That curse that they all talk about
It’s one I want to have, I swear
there’s nothing more, I want to shout,
than to be rhyming everywhere.

Sometimes I trip over my feet,
On pretty, nice, flat land.
When my poor face and pavement meet,
No pen is in my hand.

On the days I have good luck,
For me, that often means,
Lustrous, gold words, I have struck
I’m one of the machines!

Forever, I will always be
—It’s meant to be, I say—
A writer sheathed in mystery
That is the only way.