Writing poetry

[brynmawr1]

On the way to work, the way home, cutting the grass; all the time really..

Tsk tsk. How terribly suburban.
Which raises the interesting question of: would you rather die of TB and write Ode to a Nightingale, or stay alive, be an accountant, and have a house with a pool and a dog?

It’s a trick question, because Ode to a Nightingale has already been written

Guilty.  Since I have misplaced my poetic genius and I already have a house and a dog my path is set.  Although, dying of TB today would be less cliche than in Keats' time and people would feel bad about criticizing my heavy handed writing.  I do cough occasionally so there's still hope.