When The Contest Ends After Sheldon Alan Silverstein Where The Sidewalk Ends Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

There is a time where the contest ends
just after the trophy's won,
where the winner glows soft and red,
there losers less well read turn lead,
mooning best write's ambitions shed,
chilly as pepper mint curse lends.

Let us leave this place where abashed bashed blush
and the blank page can't inspire.
It's the pits where wits end, writs come slow
there the few write fast while most can't show
their true worth narrowed by rhymeless flow
when rushed contest ends in crushed hush.

No! don't leave the pits where wits go slow,
for practice perfect makes, you know,
and childlike innocence can grow
from the time the contest ends.