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Sonnet 39

I sent away the fickle muses’ horse
That took up space in my cerebral stall,
Then thanked the ladies for their time, of course,
Gave notice not to be at beck’n call;
Returned that goose’s inky feather quill
With which I wrote some rhymes and sonnets, too,
But I am not that ancient Shakespeare Will
In Tudor clothing and fine buckled shoe.
Winged Pegasus, here is your pound of grain,
No longer will you feel my spur or rein,
Nor shall I write in pain without much gain;
Be off to northern skies, but leave this brain
**** And my ability to touch and see
**** Each little verse-creating laptop key.

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I appreciate moderate constructive criticism
Editing stage: 
Content level: 
Not Explicit Content


are you going somewhere?
your rhyme is spot on

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thank you for reading and commenting. Am I going somewhere? Nope; only to Outpatient to have some more work on my eyes done (at 11:00 am). Thanks you, Chrys. Jerry

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