The poet sat and thought
He thought very much a lot
about the words he could put to page
whether something whimsical or sage
But it was all for naught
For his brain did rot
As he sat upon his spot
In very much deep thought
You see he worried of this thing
About how his words would ring
This caused him so much strife
He completely wasted his life
This worry consumed his time
So much he never penned a line
And you can find his bones
Sitting quite alones
With quill in hand
Paper at his feet in sand
Only a title written on the sheet
THE SELF POR-TREET
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