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The poet's play yard reaches out as he fills
his pleasure with much pride. But writing
stanzas free verse or rhyme, sometimes
himself he gets beside.
He's not sure whether iambic pentameter or
trochee rocks his style, or if maybe
anapest or spondee could curb his
urges for a while.
He checks his words and phrases not wasting
time, but perseveres. And tries hard not
to act in haste, so to make his message
clear.
The poet's efforts to his craft should give
him consolation. For sleepless nights and
hunger strikes, he found the prize:
libation.
The final words upon his page cease to fill
him with delight. 'Cause too much drink
has made him think, I'd better sleep
it off tonight!
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