The Writer
Behold the writer, still and in repose,Who ponders in amazement what he sees,
This flawless easy rolling stream of prose;
Bedazzled by his own complexities.
"Aha!" he cries, to none. "This work is gold,
I must at once go out and call a meet,
May everyone who is someone be told
To come and hear my literary feat!"
And so he sets the date, and it comes 'round,
He takes the stage and slowly starts to read,
Intoning every line (it's so profound)
So that the people listening take heed.
Alas, the wonder of his words must keep,
As half of his whole audience fell asleep.
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