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Quaff, oh quaff
Lenore’s a bore
Eyes wide open yet shut and snore
Crusted lids do cap and carp
Disheveled lashes beat a corpse
And what we see is horse’s toil
Such foaming mouths and desperate foil
Wrapped and crinkled in tight vices
Tinny bells beckon for vices

The punished lot has matters to say
The poets’ lot is wordy cache
Expelled, exposed, imposed verbals
Text without icons and phoney jumbles
Think us better as others think same
All the actors singing same refrain

And me with padded fingers and pursed eyes
Open tight and winking lies
Curse the inspiration but mimic nonetheless
Want their industriousness
Complex and frustrations
Churn out one percent of a novel
Marvelous laze and chips on shoulders
A Brilliant Mind complements The Idiot

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