Poetry For Breakfast

Poetry for breakfast, poetry for lunch and poetry for dinner.
I've never written quite this much, but fear I'm getting thinner.
Poetry on waking, poetry at work, and poetry late at night.
I'm writing so much poetry, something just can't be right.

Perhaps my muse will dry up soon. Perhaps next week I'll die,
and in a heap of poetry you'll find my body lie.
Over the oceans, over the mountains, through water, earth, and sky,
on wings made of my poetry my mind and soul will fly.