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Haiku
November 21, 2008
Five-seven-five pulse.
The lines are so contingent,
Waiting to be written.
Just pick up your pen,
Let this rhythm flow. Then,
You have a haiku.
Yet, poems are bland,
To any prosaic man,
Just don’t look so deep
Brother, I must speak!
In this five seven five beat,
Always eat your meat.
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