They asked me for payment for printing my words!
Payment from me? That’s so absurd!
Pay them to be able to print all of my verse?
Never! And to them I send now this curse:

To you who demand the payment from me
I’ll never succumb and provide it to you
Oh, you’ll lose the chance to make money from me
For I’ll find another, yes, that’s what I’ll do
I know that there’s someone, somewhere, that will
Take all my poems and bind them in tact
From them, they’ll ask only that I write
They’ll give ME the money and that is a fact
So you’ll lose the honor of my name with you
In fact, your asking for money is surely a joke
I’ll have the last laugh on you, all of you thieves
When you have closed down your doors because you went broke

(I know we won’t get rich writing poetry, but I won’t give in either)