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O Eliot, Wherefore Art Thou?

seeking to post, embracing the sprite of send,

** ** oh no, oh no, my work is roasted,

thy error message says

boy, thy work,

lost, burnt, and toasted!

 

did not your brother William foretell,

“These violent delights have violent ends

And in their triump die, like fire and powder

Which, as they kiss, consume”

their issue, our poems, explode and die, unsent!

 

Can you blast us a group message, a fine line of one or two,

what ails the system this politically incorrect discrimination,

some can, some can't, it is a glitch or has our transatlantic

"special relationship" or my operating system,

sunk beneath the clouds?

 

Post us brother, why some of us can and others not,

post our words which you love so much!

Request permission to use this poem
Written by
nat-lipstadt
99 / M / NYC/Lippstadt/Kraków
Published
Dec 29, 2017
Lines·Words
17·126
Permission

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