For days I write puns framed by rhymes stock and shallow.
My brain seems to grow only grass. It lies fallow.
Yet despair at these times outs this poet as jerk:
They're just journeyman bridges between master-work.
My brain seems to grow only grass. It lies fallow.
Yet despair at these times outs this poet as jerk:
They're just journeyman bridges between master-work.
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