All the ink is gone.
Get a job, on a farm.
Such is the poet's fate.
Without money and getting late.
Empty wine cup in bent hand.
All those words and now till land.
Poverty stricken poet - LAUGH LOUD.
Your floating on a cloud.
Mortals just don't ever know.
The poets eye - such flys the crow.
OH-that mighty cup of hand.
Resting - a sip of many lands.
A poets mind, like sifting sand.
Come to me poet - with lifes rhymes.
I really need to know the - TIME.
TIME TIME TIME TIME TIME TIME
[from 8hop.com 2007 offline ] POEWHIT 2013
© Copyright 2016 poewhit. All rights reserved.
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