It's not that my life's all poetry
It's really mostly steadily prosaic
Quickened by the occasional panic
I'd make a poor criminal
My heart just isn't in it
But a thief of love I try
To keep my columns Doric
And my ashes dry
Until they come again
The chorus in my head
Isn't the 'ic' the 'Ich' the 'I'
In the circle of the dead
Who compose and decompose
What I write down instead
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