A poem riding down the hill, Decided not to pay the bill. It galloped breathless, ever faster, Therefore it dropped in great disaster. Rode hastily, fell into dirt, A shameful fall, but didn't hurt. However, as the poet saw, The poem had a dirty claw, He grumbled: "You are not my own, 'Cause you look like a dirty stone!" The poem crept sadly away, 'Cause poet had refused to play.
|
Fallen Poem’s Dirty Claw
Veröffentlicht in Texte.