Will Nobody Buy My Book?

I write real good and I done a book,
Bot nobody gives it a second look,
Or even a first, they just don't care
That there's cats and babies and flowers in there.

I said, just print a thousand or two,
They won't last long, it's up to you
But you might want to print a whole lot more,
They'll be gone in a jiffy or I'll know what for.

I sold a few to friends I knew,
At half the price I'd sell to you,
To tell the truth I gave them free,
My friends said they would each take three.

I asked one how she liked the book;
She gave me such a funny look.
She said she'd got to chapter three;
I said, my dear, it's poetry!

My friends can't find the time to call,
They never answer texts at all,
I just can't get them on the phone,
I've never felt so much alone.

My books are stacked up in the hall,
I don't know where to put them all,
I've got a hundred in my bed,
A thousand in the garden shed.

There's books on shelves and chairs and floors,
They're in the oven and in drawers,
In cases, boxes, bags and packets,
Outside amongst the tennis racquets.

The moral of this story is,
If someone tells you you're a wiz,
Don't let them lead you such a dance
And get their money in advance.