And all of us at the Maple Leaf
knew that he would come to grief.
Some folks live so close to death
That you can swear you smell it on their breath.
Yes, poets dream, and poets drink,
And poets live life on the brink.
Poets smoke, and poets die,
And if you ever ask them why,
They'll tell you, they don't have a clue.
They'll tell you,
It's just what poets do.