Later I saw it limping in the grass,
but still strenuously struggling on
while first-time authors questioned
earnestly the great poet, celebrated
still, despite mane of silver and Johnny
Walker hue. He swept up microphone
from the platform’s trestle table, announced:
My gift also is my
awful burden. Sooner
would I squeeze drops
of blood from my
fair forehead than
write, to order, some
subtle ode to sunsets!
Look upon me
and look upon my slim
but mighty
volumes and despair! Just
then I saw
your beetle suddenly fly into the air,
circle once above nodding heads and
perch on that noble lorikeet brow.
Glen
Phillips
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