Once there was a boy who wrote,
And wrote and wrote and wrote,
Indeed he loved to write back then,
But then began to grow
Once a young man loved to write,
He worked and sometimes wrote,
And then he learned and loved and grew,
Uncertain where to go
Once a man could write the world
But time was always short,
And no-one read his lonely drafts
To say what they were worth
Once an old man wrote his will,
That was the last he wrote,
And had not touched the pen in years,
His passion died before him
Years ago, the man who wrote,
Was buried in his books,
Years and fame did not unearth them,
They were never read again
