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Inflammatory Writ

Oh, where is your inflammatory writ

Your text that would inside a light be lit

Our music deserving devotion unswerving

Cry "Do I deserve her?" with unflagging fervor

Well, no we do not if we cannot get over itBut what's it mean when suddenly we're spent, tell me true

Ambition came and reared its head and went far from you

Even mollusks have weddings, though solemn and leaden

But you dirge for the dead and take no jam on your bread

Just a supper of salt and a waltz through your empty bedAnd all at once it came to me

And I wrote in hunch 'til four-thirty

But that vestal light

It burns out with the night

In spite of all the time that we spend on it

On one bedraggled ghost of a sonnet

While outside the wild boars root

Without bending a bough underfoot

Oh it breaks my heart

I don't know how they do it

So don't ask meAnd as for my inflammatory writ

Well, I wrote it and I was not inflamed one bit

Advice from the master derailed that disaster

He said "Hand that pen over to me, poetaster!"

While across the great plains keening lovely and awful

Ululate the lost Great American Novels

An unlawful lot left to stutter and freeze, floodlit

But at least they didn't run, to their undying credit

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