I check it every morning and give a little laugh,
When I see the undulations of my web subscribers graph,
It rises up from zero and hits the giddy heights of ten,
Before it tumbles down to barely minus one again.
It is not a heartening message for a poet such as I,
To know that his whole audience is barely three times Pi,
Where are you, cultured nation, why don’t you read my rhyme?
The punters cry, you’re boring and we haven’t got the time.
But I am the jolly rhymester, don’t you love me all to bits?
Oh no, they cry, it is the web, we’re off to look at tits,
And so I hang my head in shame, like a lady oh so bridal,
And pretend I haven’t seen the graph that’s made me suicidal.