Though desert surrounded his birth, he survived.
At school, he did well, though he somehow contrived
To disappoint everyone, this way or that
And left university lazy and fat.

His life was a secret to people at work:
At home, all alone, he went quietly beserk.
Then one day last year, in the depths of his fears,
A girl introduced him to friendship through tears.

She read him some poetry, gave him a book,
Pretended to cope with the favours he took.
Then soon he began to try writing himself
And gathered five volumes of handwritten stealth.

His secrets so rapid, he started to type,
Promoted his writing with devious hype,
Then published the lot in an internet nook,
Aspiring to transfer it all to a book.

But the closest he came to famous last words
Was a funeral dirge from a chorus of birds
Who sang not for dawn but for life growing dim
And flew away once they had shat on him.