The Last Page
My notebook’s out of pages;
I’m writing on the last.
The time it takes to fill one
Seems to zip by rather fast.
My finished books are in a pile
Replete with all my rhymes,
Reflecting how I felt about
The topics of the times.
I carry ‘round a smaller version
When I’m not at home
So I can always have a place
To jot my daily poem.
Tomorrow I’ll inaugurate
A brand new sheaf of leaves,
Which soon will hold the latest thoughts
My racing mind conceives.
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