Oh how sad to think
Of those poems that might have been
Had I but sat down in a chair
And taken into my hand a pen.
Who knows what glorious prose
Would have flowed from my finger tips,
Or what magical things
Would have escaped from my ruby lips.
Not that poems are prose
And the words really flow from the pen.
I don't generally speak my poems aloud,
Only now and again.
No do you sit on a chair to write but most often from a branch in a tree or from the perch of the chicken coop roof.
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