The Poet
Poetry’s blue
Like raindrops and dew
It’s sad when it’s said
Most poets are dead.
Music is blissful
To a poet it’s wistful
Has it never been cried
That an artist has lied.
A flower’s a bud
It’s soil in love
An apparatus of chortle and cheer
But has it never been said
That god must be dead
‘cause even flowers
Whittle with tears.
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