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Four hundred poems,
Not one is the same,
I think it’s wine, and
The coffee to blame.
Many late evenings,
With nothing to do,
So I start writing,
Until I am through.
My mind starts to wander,
And gives me a fright,
The things that I see, are
The things that I write.
Whether dramatic,
Or things that are true,
Writings for me, and
Some writings for you.
Thank you for hearing,
The things that I say,
As you interpret,
The thoughts I convey.
Come back and visit,
And see what I write,
As I am working,
Late into the night.
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