The Mad Poet.

  Rupert was an aspiring poet,
though the critics didn't know it.
He began to rave and tear his hair out,
his lips were formed in a permanent pout.
He wasn't original.

In time he was sectioned, he'd gone out of his mind,
Well, he'd never been in it, I think you will find.
He now sits in his cell dreaming up lots of verse
Of silvery moons and a nocturnal hearse.
frittering lights and a madman's curse.
He was getting original.

In time he was allowed to use sharp pens,
so he wrote of ghostly shapes crossing fog shrouded fens.
The critics read his work and now want to know it.
Rupert's now famous; a celebrated Mad Poet.
Now he's original.




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