The Jealous Poet
On one fine day the poet found another,
Of which her words would make his smother.
He didn't know what to do,
Even his pen cried tears, a few.
Each verse that he read,
Bore more jealousy in his head.
A battle of supremacy would soon come,
From mere inches of his thumb.
But for each two words that he wrote,
One of hers, ever more spoke.
So a decision was made, dreaming in his bed,
That he would take up painting, for this instead!
9-September-2021
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