Lyrics
We have talent
People call us the leading poets of our day
Too bad, our homes are humble
Our recognition trivial
We are hungry, wearing rags
Rockers treat us with contempt
In the prime of our life, our faces are wrinkled
Who cares about either of us or our troubles?
We are our own audience
We appreciate each other's literary merits
Our poems will be handed down along with other great dead poets'
We can console each other, at least we will have descendants