Well what on earth can I say about a poet,
He writes what he likes and doesn't even know it;
He thinks about whatever comes into his mind,
And is usually humble and gentle and kind.
.
I must now stop as I'm getting stuck for words,
And sit back and listen to the sound of the birds;
For nothing will come to the mind of the weary,
So rest for a while to develop a new theory.
.
Now the poet has a heart and taste of his own
As he waits for the rhyme and message he's sown;
His love is found at the tip of his pen,
As he connects with the paper every now and then.
.
There should be magic in every inspiration and verse,
But sometimes there's problems and he needs to rehearse;
Now poetry is beautiful and hopefully easy to understand and read,
So admire the poet if possible and for that now I plead.
.
Signed,
The poet
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