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Poetry: Special Days
Poetry
by Don Erskine

Oh poetry, thou art a pain,
You muddle up my poor brain.
You are I swear no good to me ,
or generations yet to be.
To memorize I do not yearn,
In fact I do not give a dern.
And if there were any other way,
To pass my grades the coming day.
Oh poetry, I would throw thou far far away.

 
 
 
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