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Stymied Poet
When the muse is hard upon me Would I lie upon the grass Scribble with a stubby pencil Whimsies ere they fade and pass; Plot my verses willy-nilly As they play across my mind Humming quickly in and out Catch it now or never find The vagrant rhymes that startle, then Dissolve and come no more; Compared with this the work-a-day Is really quite a chore.
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