The man called himself a poet
And most were happy to know it.
He’d bust out a ryhme,
that scanned most of the time,
and free-formed when lines wouldn’t fit.
April Poem #28
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The man called himself a poet
And most were happy to know it.
He’d bust out a ryhme,
that scanned most of the time,
and free-formed when lines wouldn’t fit.
