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Poetry, a weak man’s sword Forced to yield it to prove my brawn A joke, a jest I had voiced my displeasure Reluctant and grumbling I grasped the hilt
The scratch and swish of pen on paper, Is wind through creaking trees on an Autumn evening
Building, And shrinking; Still the same size, But different forms; From big and blissful! To concentrated and sad, But all the while, so good, It all feels so good,
On a bed I did repose, Thinking what to write in prose; Then at once it came to me, About what this poem should be.
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