Minutes are but little things,
Each one gifted with sixty wings,
They fly away on an unbidden track
And never a minute ever comes back.

As minutes take flight, the hours roll on
And turn into days which are rapidly gone.
Have they been used, these segments of Time?
Or do you sit dreaming of glory sublime?

Before you're aware a year has gone by,
And all of your dreams are still pie in the sky.
The book still unwritten, the poems not read.
A few bits were published but nothing that led...

To fame and to fortune and money in the Bank.
The time that you wasted, it just drew a blank.
Writers are dreamers, don't like to engage
In actually putting the words on a page.

So don't waste precious minutes, or hours, or days.
Get on with the hard graft, and soon you'll be praised
For the best-selling book that is filling the stores,
And which you're now signing - is YOURS!