(obsession
doggerel)
Rhymester:
metromania
Inside was
so much doggerel
He feared
he would one day explode.
Words were
his banquet—he was full.
He’d hit
the poet’s mother lode.
But “poet”
is too generous
To use for
him, an amateur.
To label
someone giftless thus
Is to
award a heartless boor
A Nobel
Prize for Peace. But on
He
scribbled, day and night, until
His words,
at last, were finally gone.
He paused,
then wondered if some pill
Could make
the vanished words return.
He tried
them all, found no relief,
Then
realized he had to learn
To live
alone in wordless grief.
But Love
arrived one day in spring,
And words
that had all flown away
Returned
(yes, Love can do this thing),
And words again,
both night and day,
Flew from
his fingers, and his mate,
Who read
his output every day,
Thought
all of it was just first-rate.
And thus
Love grew, in every way.
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