MUSELESS IN SEATTLE
I used to be a poet
Now I ain’t
I could rhyme then
But now I cain’t
I sit, an idle artist
Without paint
Beneath the flecking statue
Of a faded saint
The pigeons eye me sadly
As I sit
Devoid of any feeling
Without wit
The sweeper of the street
Thinks I’m a twit
As I peruse blank pages
I ain’t writ
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