Saturday, February 9, 2013

My Analytic Bezoar

It's all been done before
What a bore
Hang up the quill and write no more 
Leave this chore
Seek a different door
And don't be sore
It's  in the lore 
The artist's core 
Only wants them to adore 
But no muse to implore
From days of yore 
So the pressing feeling now ignore
Against the urge to write now roar 
And wail against the unfair score
Too late your art made war
To an empty battle field lacking gore
It's own heart alone now tore
Never to rise up above and soar 
Never to land on that shining shore 
Too late libation it will pour 
Waiting not to see what's in store 
This muse a fussy and a whore
To make each poet her amore

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