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Thursday, October 05, 2006

a study toward sonnet #1,154 by FisherKingKQJ

You don't inspire me, as you're not my muse,
You flatter yourself, flaunting yourself vain,
Though I love you, at length you look my bane,
So let me spell out sense, and disabuse.
My characters are coined composite hues,
Boiled down, diluted, blended in domain,
Always I stroke with given, swirling grain,
So you might chime in sundry things you choose.
I can't languish, with you in poet's laurels,
You've lavished praise on the verses least like,
Weirdly shunned the ones about our quarrels,
The ones which I think as systemic strike.
My wayward muse, I'll ever never rue-
Though your recorded speech estranges you.

(Chorus)
o $10,000,000 rue
o $10,000,000 mourn
o $10,000,000 solemnise

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