Rhymes came easy, simple they were,
A clever play of words, to anyone it could occur,
Yet he made it his forte, his love of life,
Writing was his passion and also his strife.

A poet he was, one that never made sense,
I must say he rhymed well though, a point in his defense,
Sometimes though rhyming could be crazy, make him write stuff too insane…
Writing was his boon and also his bane.

An addict he was of tales too many,
Wrote many of his own, happy endings weren’t any,
Though he always started a tale on high notes, couldn’t end it so well..
Writing was his heaven and also his hell…

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