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When I was seven, I decided that I was going to make a
book of poetry. In my usual style, I physically made the book, numbered
the pages and created the names of 11 poems before I wrote any. I ended
up with six...although hardly, since the one entitled "Thank Goodness" ran
thus: Thank goodnes I don't have a pig. |
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The first work, which is either highly modernist or
else very strangely constructed, is a realist study of My Brother. |
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Beware all sisters with brother's |
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you never now what they could do |
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next |
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for
instens take my brothe |
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Scribbles every-where
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All ways make’s you
draw trains
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And worse than that
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and by the way |
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his two |
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You know, Robert Smith and myself have something
else in common, besides both being ladies. Both, at some point in our
lives, have composed works
entitled "So What?". His, a song in '79, mine, a poem in
'94. Here's mine. |
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The next (unwritten) page had a follow up title of "Who
Cares". Eat your heart out, Bobert. |
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The crown jewel in this Tower of London that
is my early work, must be the instructive and cautionary tale The Proud Pencil. |
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Once upon a time there lived a
proud pencil. |
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He was bossy. He bossed the
rubber and the |
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sharpener and the WHole pencil
case. |
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One day a New pencil came. The
rubber turnd |
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red so did the Shaperner. But the
pencil the |
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proud one thought of being bossy. |
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He tried to but she ignord him.
For the first time
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he stoped. FOR EVER |
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And hey, we could all learn something from that. |
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