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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