Riches and Rags
	The football team had hoped for glory, As every match they won, And I, alone, had wrote their story, As I was their only fan. I had written book and book, Which sold and sold for many years: Tales of Chortle United, The blood, the sweat and tears. As a writer I’d been famed, And seen on many T.V. shows, And many people had adored me, Like a star that always glows. Then, one day, my fame just ended, Like a relegated football team: I’d awoke to realise That everything was just a dream. I was not famous at all: I’d not wrote a single book, And all the fans I thought I had - How I’d been mistook. I awoke to find myself Within a dirty, smelly hut, With slimy rags to pass as clothes And pain within my gut. Out the window were angry people, Hundreds could I see, And they were shouting words of hate, All directed at me. I heard them kicking at my door, But what had I done wrong? “We do not know, we do not care!” They said and then were gone. How sad it feels to wake each day, When dreaming’s such a pretty place, To stare in the cracked, dirty mirror At such a broken face. I’d really like to write some books, But I am not so clever, And so instead I’ll go to bed, And dream away forever. © 2001 Matt Everett
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