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Old poets never fade away
Giving souls to death, night and day
Their brains manufacture metaphors
In sleep as they're dreaming in their drawers
Relentlessly they search for the rhyme
Which best expresses old father time
They dig their graveyards deeper, deeper
Hoping to uncover their grim reaper
Their words being dressed
As they are obsessed
Old poets write their best
When winter winds do blow
And the sun sinks low
For death they do personify
They're always looking for him high
And ever looking for him low
But never show him real you know
What really comes to light?
Old poets may be right
Death is just another poem to write
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