As I was going to St.Ives
I met a man who had the hives
Cursed tormented soul was he
Cursed to writing poetry

Isolated, damned you see
Lost in verbal symmetry
Nothing mattered much to him
A drug it was,not just a whim

I wish for him a better day
When words and rhymes will go away
And tunes and sports stand in their stead
But I know alas then he'll be dead