The Tale: Where Do Masterpiece's Begin
A poet sits at a desk of blank sheets, he begins to write jibberish, at times, nonsensical, whilst others are jovial, a completely foolish thing I have, though even I have had little luck. I'll go at it a second time. It seems to have rhythm, it seems to be balanced, but I am as dry a thought as the many, so I'll this a go, but first I will title this shameful poem and after anybody reads it, I suppose, I'll not dispose of it, but simply shelf it off somewhere in this big empty room.
My lord, what this tristch-trastch laying here in the open, lil' Robbie has been at it again, well, I wonder what he's wasting his time on now. I've nothing to do, house all cleaned, so I shall sit a spell. Might as well have at it--all of this doodling really, a waste of paper and ink, for there's nothing better thing to do then a proper education, methinks. Tut'tut'tut, "The Road Less Traveled", Hm!?
2019 September 17
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