The words are running out
the spark is dying.
There's a bucket in the hole
but still the river bed is drying.

I'm running out of tunes
there's only so many notes;
and all my hollow sentiments
just echo what was wrote

by lyricists and poets
more original than I,
the sort who with a single word
can make the reader cry,

and laugh without any
real conscious thought,
the words just flowing out of them
each with it's own import.

And my poor aping verse,
and awkard inadequate praise
can never recompense them for
the feelings that they gave

so freely to me that I might
borrow them for myself.
A poet needs no riches
for their souls are full of wealth.