He wakes every morning at a nine quarter past
And lanes down the stroll to his box mail.
But, finding none there he home saunters fast
For his fast break is hot, getting stale.
Over gravy and biscuits and a tea cup of hot
He reads the news local review
But the paper news columns are jumbled and fraught
With stories of bad not good news.
Selling poems for a living, this renowned is a man
Who’s tangled up think mind’s a curse.
How does this poet make sense of a plan?
Why it’s simple, he
just writes inverse!
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