We have our dreams
Our stupid illusion
Given by the creator
For his amusement
And the readers delight
We strive and fight
Day and night
We are created for someone’s
Else enjoyment and capital gains
The profit is not ours but the
Owner of the publishing company
Still at night we dream of freedom to
Live a normal life with work, wife and
Mortgages to pay, going to the pub and play
Maybe even turn gay
But hey we do not exist
No passport , no ID
Never born, never dead
We are only character
Leaving in a leaking shed
In the author’s head
Schibolet 