I see the trees, I see the skies.
oh I see! who’s been eating my fries,
it has a hungry coo, lives in my shoe,
it’s a pitiful poor mice.

I glance the piece
wearing the time as tie.
It reaches five-thirty
for thoughts, it’s time to fry.

The daily challenge has prevailed
a sense of grave thinking.
Gazing every possible plot,
without blinking!

I soon Realize the reason,
I used the prompt in every season.
My hands work bereft my command
spooked by strange reprimands.

At the end, when I wake
I reckon my poem has baked.
And now one moral I learn:
no matter how much you realize,
it is the periphery of every turn!



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