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The Drifter
Sifting through the sands of time
Drifting through the lands of rhyme
A humble poet bound for glory
They rumble thus around for story
When all prose of past recalled
Then all those at last enthralled
Guilty of floral attitudes
Innocent of moral platitudes
Elocution flows from his tongue
Each line glows as if it were sung
Eyes bleary still he tries his best
Till weary words he lies to rest
Copyright ©
Randy Freie
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