I wait and I wait, for that ringing bell
To see who’s eyes, on my writing has fell
Not like the cat who is announced to their fear
So that they may scurry, run right out of here
But alas it’s no warning, but a cry just to see
Who has enjoyed my work, and perhaps still likes me
A pathetic response, one I can scarcely doubt
But one which is craven, does life exist without?
Ah yes this may be, whether I admit it or not
But am I really this fearful, inebriated sot?
Not really, for I haven’t time to live in this fright
I’ve also got this overwhelming compulsion to write.