Poem: You and Your Daft Ideas

You no longer find the time to go out, you’re the editor of a new magazine that no one

buys. And the owner of all the old lies. You tell every- one it’s free.    You’d sell it

if you could. You would do better to get more sleep. You find yourself in too deep,

with work and play married; work wants a divorce and of course play is here to stay.

You tell it yo…