Last Word, Pomes

Portrait of the writer


The art of the writer
is a precious thing.
He writes for himself,
but others are served.

The heart of the blighter
wants the woman to cling.
He wants for himself
the other thinks “perve!”.

The part of the writer
is a constant thing.
It creates itself
barbers conserve.

The fart of the writer
has a wonderous sting.
He relieves himself
the room is unnerved.

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