this little poem mine
sadly, died upon the vine,
tho watered and sun'd,
tended and tendered,
to and from your neglect,
it sadly surrendered,
from which there is
no respite or surviving
three or four sprouts tall,
grounded, now homeward bounded,
from dust to dust,
earth to ash,
this little poem ******,
to the dustbin condemned,
my sweetest, petitest, little trash,,
never to be read again.*
0ggdiddy Nash