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Two thousand four was awhile ago
Firing up the papers that need to go
Eleven years is long enough
To be burnin' trees on the cuff
Those hard copies
Discs are here, not floppy's
While I'm still stuck on paper
Trying to burn it up and taper
All this information that's in my brain
Before I trip over it, cuss, and go insane
Too much, too heavy
Don't need more than I can carry
With an artificial shoulder
Clean up the papers, woman
You're getting older
You write your poetry on Notepad
A computer is the best thing a poet ever had
Beside the drive to write
Coming to them day and night
Night and day
Which ever way is your poet way
Burnin' up the originals too
Poetry comes all the time anew
Writing so many I can't remember them all
It's the time of Fall
When poetry makes the wood catch afire
Burnin' up the papers, it's dire.

11/13/2015 1825PST cj

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