A real poet

He said I was  a not a real  poet

My knowledge was , let’s say, inchoate

But when I wrote a sonnet

He said,Now you’ve done it.

You are a born   one and don’t you just know it!

 

I said, after  six years of practise.

I might have even become a stage actress.

But my vocation is  to pen,

And to amuse  gentlemen.

As the world turns round  again on its axis.

 

 

Six years is  more than 2,000 days

On which I have studied and prayed

For seven hours or more

Which brings up  my score

To fourteen thousand hours ,by the way.

 

So really I’ve not done that well.

But luckily most folk can’t tell.

I’ll   accept my position

With no self derision.

I might almost be in a nun’s cell