An Infinite Number of Poets
If an infinite number of monkey’s
Will write everything that’s been read
Then an infinite number of poets
Would repeat everything that’s been said
Alas it’s the fault of the reader
For they know neither living nor dead
And if you go quoting a poet
It’s probably nothing they said
Just something that dripped on the paper
As it leaked slowly out of their head
And so I must go as my pencil
Slowly has run out of lead
And the muse in abject confusion
sprouted gold wings as it fled
John G. Lawless
©12/26/2021
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