Jan Sand (February 2 1926 / USA)
These times dictate a fashion
That all rhyme be banished,
Vanished. But an inner passion
Bubbles out again, again
From the gullies of my brain.
No matter how I struggle, fight it,
Nothing I can do can blight it,
This demon gives me no respect.
He spreads this fungus to infect
My typographic scan. This plague
Now spreads among us - wildly matching words
Inundate me like an avalanche of turds.
My senses suffer with this buffer, logic fading into vague.
I suffocate within this mess
There is no cure
To keep me pure
I am a gentleman in distress.
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