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Poem: Frustration 

I’ve always had a passish
to write verses Ogden Nashish;
Or have my simple romantic say
like weepy old Edna St. Vincent Millay.
Or chant tribal ballads with tom-tom whimsy
on days I’m as savage as Vachel Lindsey;
Or claim a “poem is a poem is a poem” is mine
redundantly rhymed á la Gertrude Stein.
Or expound words of philosophic dope
like classicist Alexander Pope;
But poor wretch, I, lacking talent to please
those editors who just reject with ease,
With rhyming couplets I’m wont to cuss
Their messages reading, “Wonderful, but not for us.”
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