Editors!?
I had a their prescription for a poem,
but the pharmacy would not dispense.
Seems my muse had not signed it.
So the mountebank rattled some dried snake oil,
but that turned out to be invisible think.
Ah well, the surgery is open again next month
for the next edition.
I’ll throw a few pebbles at the bedroom window,
my muse is sure to be stirring.
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