A parody of a poem by Dinesh
What sunny poem drooping from its stalk,
Lies huddled, longing to get talk
And goes on growing when instead
Critically, it should be dead?
No pity, that the poor budding bell
Had not a chance to leap out of its shell,
But realize that reason beating down,
Has turned all claptrap autumn brown.
But who's to say that the Poem needs to fall,
Or chooses to be on the web at all?
Until the music forgets how to climb,
Spare it its life at this moment of time.
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