Having posted his little poem at Vox's, and still not quite liberated from his latest bout of narcissism, he scurried over to his own blog and tacked it up for all to read and admire. With a sigh, he shook his head in amazement at his wit, realizing that, were she alive today, Emily Dickinson would be nagging him for lessons in the fine art of stringing rhymes together.
He forthwith shut down his old pc and headed off to the acceptance dinner, where he graciously hoisted on high the trophy given him by the National Library of Poetry.
Pull that handle.
Rock the vote.
All aboard
the ferryboat.
Charon grins
and plies the Styx.
Say "Huzzah!"
for politics.
The only cure
for Adam's fall:
Vote GOP,
dear little thrall.
I'm tired of excess mental exertion.
Time for cranial rectum insertion.
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