I am a washed up middle aged poet
Who has nothing new to say
I write about mermaids
And use mystical words
Just to disguise my shortcomings
Yet I am admired by many
So I continue writing poetry
The other day I received a letter
Telling me that true poets
Commit suicide at forty-six
I am past that year
So I wonder if I am a poet at all
At present I live in a convent
The nuns treat me well
And they do not pity me at all
I have been told by the Mother Superior
That I can stay as long as I want
It is useful having a sister in the trade
The convent is two miles from the sea
And I often wander down to the beach
Hoping to spot a mermaid
But of course they do not exist
And all I find is the detritus of mankind
I collect this shit in plastic bags
And wait for the Wednesday Lorry
This is about the only creative thing I do
Apart from odd jobs around the convent
I suppose that I should be glad that God still loves me
But I have this awful feeling that I am about to leave