Some Kind of Poet

Some Kind of Poet

Sitting in a garret, chewing a pen and tearing out my hair,
Surrounded by the VIPs of literary ghosts:
Paddy Kavanagh, W.B., Michael Hartnett looking reproachfully,
Just who the Hell would want to be,
Who the Hell would want to
Who the Hell would want to be a poet?

I see my old schoolmates and they’re driving around in their flashy cars,
Sipping cocktails on their yachts while I can barely keep afloat.
They say, “everyone gets what they’re worth in this market-based ‘civilisation’,”
It seems that there’s not much worth,
It seems that there’s not much worth,
It seems that there’s not much worth in a poet.

And it comes as no surprise
That I fail to open everybody’s eyes
To the fact that I deserve the Nobel Prize!

They say around our way if you spend a night on a mountaintop
– and you know, there’s a lot of truth in a lot of those old pishogues-
They say that if you spend a whole night alone on a mountaintop,
You’ll either wake up mad,
You’ll either wake up mad,
You’ll either wake up mad…or a poet!

Well, I’ve spent many a night upon a bare mountain summit,
Howling at the moon ‘til I’ve hurt my throat,
And you know that every poet is a lunatic, of course,
But is every lunatic,
Is every lunatic,
Is every lunatic a poet?

Paddy Kavanagh, I’ve you to thank,
If not for you, I could have money in the bank,
But now it seems I’ll spend my days
Just another nutter muttering poems on the Grand Canal bank!

But I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care!
The only thing I want to be,
The only thing I want to be,
The only thing I want to be
Is some kind of poet.
Some kind of poet. Some kind of poet.

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