George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He also wasn’t a very good poet.
He’d write his poetry, put on a beret, and sneak into coffeehouses and dives to read them.
People would smoke their joints, sip their cappuccinos, and snap their fingers.
Nobody would judge. Everyone got the same snaps.
So, George didn’t know he wasn’t a very good poet, and he had no incentive to improve.
Nobody took him under their wing to teach him about good poetry.
And he got so full of himself, he didn’t listen to anybody else’s work to learn.