If I had the urge to write,
And was brazen, not contrite,
Then I’d rather be a killer than a writer,
For I’d sooner get a deal,
And a flashy rest’rant meal,
If I’d killed my bairnies three with bloody mitre.
I’d be a cause célèbre,
Not some ordinary pleb,
And I wouldn’t write my story in my attic,
For they’d send to me a ghost,
He’d be humble, never boast,
And I’d have my million seller, automatic.
So don’t labour with that pen,
In your humble poet’s den,
There’s a quicker route to cash and fame and glory,
Just kill your cheating wife,
And extinguish out her life,
And then watch the offers flow in for your story.