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Amusething

I have to write a poem,
Iíve been away too long,
my muse has now forgotten how to play.
So I sit here thinking,
about what I should write,
until this nighttime turns into the day.

Shall I make it silly
or shall I make it nice,
a horror story straight from deepest hell?
Should I tell of angels
just waiting with their harps,
whilst the reaper is at large to ring deathís bell?

Oh please, my muse come join me,
Iím feeling so alone,
what can a wordless poet do for fun.
Iíd better get a cushion
to soften up this chair
for sitting writing nothing hurts my bum.

But now the sun is rising
to wash away the night
and dawn prepares to blossom into day.
I know itís time to ponder
if my sanityís quite right
as I snap my pen and throw my pad away.

Ivor G Davies

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