under the sunset tree in poetry

I’ll never be Lord Bryon
I don’t heal that fast
I could never be that oily
and I’m running low on gas
now I don’t blame you, baby
if you want Lord Bryon’s ass
but that man is dead and buried
the lordly time is past
I’m just trying to find a bass
in these trebled trebled times
looking for bed-mannered doctors
while we all nurse these rhymes
looking for a girl who don’t need Lord Bryon
just needs a wordsmith who keeps tryin’
to get it right get it right
tryin’ to get it right get it right