I used to be a poet-on-demand.
Their curious faces looked at none but me.
When I did write, the poems turned to sand.

I would imagine stories swift and grand
and points of view, me, you, them, he, and she.
I used to be a poet-on-demand.

They badgered me with sharp and shrill commands;
My time was short, the hours dark and wee.
When I did write, the poems turned to sand.

With no more life, my verse became so bland
that no one knew I'd been a prodigy.
I used to be a poet-on-demand.

My face was slapped by angry, burning hands;
like firemen, they ordered me to flee.
When I did write, the poems turned to sand.

I'm now a waiter at Salut on Grand.
I now cost money - I'm no longer free.
I used to be a poet-on-demand.
When I did write, the poems turned to sand.