The Crocus Catches Fire
Poetry is my locus
poetry gives me focus
It's more beutiful than a white crocus
A perfect flower of the gods
More exsquisite than they with all their lauds
But even this flier
will wither in poetrys golden ire
burn in that eternal fire
Of poetry that will forever, never tire
The buyer of the gods perfect flier
Sees poetrys golden ire
beholden to never tire
And their perfect white crocus catches fire
Again poetry is my locus
that gives me focus
will never tire
and with that beholden golden ire
the gods white crocus catches fire
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