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Leigh Collin Brandt

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Monday, August 27, 2018

I'M NOT A REAL POET

"Things fall apart," the poet Yeats would divine,
When order turns to chaos, all poets for order pine,
That's why I'm not a poet,
I think anarchy is fine,
I do not talk of hunter birds,
With the rhyming of my words,
And,  I'll end up at Hades gate, 
Churned by worms, I'll fatten bait.

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