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Just see me
how I’ve spent all my pay,
daily buying ink
to write my poems.

And now it’s no longer in doubt that soon,
I’ll finally be forced to eat my words.
If I must survive.

But that sounds too prophetic I fear,
Please is there any protein in paper?

Well of course you might not know,
but if you do then you must be a brain.
I fancy microbicropulpypapyriologists,
And I guess that’s a fine name for paper technologists.
Well that’s enough grammar there to last you at least for now.

And though with my left
I yet can’t write,
please don’t pity me for being bereft.
You see I’ve still got my right.

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