I know not how others
Compose words so fair;
For my pathetic efforts
Can not compare.

Those of the past ages
Made great works of art;
While I throw words together
That I should part.

My poems but simple rhymes,
Bland without feeling.
No purpose, cause for being,
Without meaning.

But still I continue
Laboring this way.
Though I have no true talent;
My words no sway.