To the extent that their is no bush to
beat around. No piñata donkey
to be disembowelled by children who
have an aim to find a lovely sweety.
The day a poem died, it reeked horribly.
A bishop read out it's final rites,
and gave it up to the pageless, the empty.
A few zombies gave us a fright,
But finally a rhyme resurrected mightily.
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