Saturday 22 August 2015

On the departure of a rude poet


Alas, Poor Yorick, I wish I could say,
That I knew him well, but ‘twas not so.
He commented at times, and I may,
Have wondered if he was real, or a joke.

But then it took a comment so stray,
That to our collective ego, he dealt a blow,
Unworthy were we of his verbal ballet,
We plodders, labouring under a yoke.

Sometimes, our feet are only of clay,
A lesson we all should know,
And though this thread is led astray,
This much to ourselves we owe.

It’s not always easy, words to weigh,
To hold back, to go a little slow,
Not all of us are gifted the same,
But we strive equally at the muses’ plough.

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