The Arduous Journey Poem by Hannington Mumo

I thought the labors of pen would easily pay,
But the journey seems to be gaining new hurdles
As I continue the determined climb to sweetened fame,
Where I'd sip choice wine and blow a million candles.

Yet I'm convinced that I have lost not the way
And that I tread the right unbeaten roads,
Upon which Shakespeare and Wendell and Shaw trod
Wasted centuries gone, the age of enabling gods.

I fancied my cup would soon overflow,
And that my little wants would soon go;
The brims of fame seemed to near to reach,
The goal-lines too near-set to toe.

It's a score and seven seasons since my lowly coming,
And the embers of powerful writ do still afflict,
East a novel unwritten, south mountains of urging rhymes;
North the need for ancient prose, West a yarn to twist.

An adroit pen deserves its wages,
Befitting not a child to eat the dinner of sages;
Yet a lowly cat at the king may look,
And a history's apprentice may ink a little book.

Shakespeare, not a curse heaped on thy practiced bones;
Nor Wendell your medicated brains,
I remember not a word vile against Shaw.
Fathers, why these trammeled strains?