April 20, 2006
Real Poets
Self-anointed Poets never come. From the unwashed proletariat. Much in favor is the chosen one Appointed as the Poet Laureate.
William's Whimsical Words: Poorwilliam makes his rhymes. But he cannot twirl a rope. Pity him, as in these times, Clearly he's beyond all hope.
Poorwilliam makes his rhymes. But he cannot twirl a rope. Pity him, as in these times, Clearly he's beyond all hope.
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