He said to me i have been told you are the fellow who pens reams of rhyming stuff
For too many years for your own sake you have been one of those a rhyming buff
A rhymer who writes for enjoyment only not for the reward of pay
Suppose as is said of fools that their sort are born every day
You have written so many rhymes of this Town known as Millstreet
And of the green countryside where the waterways do meet
But in writing for you never any money or fame
Perhaps you will die as you live as an unknown literary name
You have writen heaps of rhymes of the characters you have known
People battling through life who have ways of their own
And in your own words you do honor the dead
But an eulogy for you more than likely will never be read
His opinions on me does suit me quite fine
For this is his business and his business cannot be mine
He is not my friend nor is he one of my foes
It is each to their own one would have to suppose.
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