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Crafting a Damn Poem

 
Even the little words are reluctant
to heel in neatly, do what they’re told
 
greased with some spittle, cleverly constant
sneaking discretely they anchor their hold
 
brazen with bottle, never repentant
creeping concretely they’re breaking my mould
 
pressing the throttle, smiling expectant
almost completely my focus is rolled …
 
            … but restless to whittle words that are extant
            lifting astutely the meaning they polled
 
            eyeing the prattle, shooting the mutants
            slow, resolutely, the film-rights are sold
 
            then flicking the dottle, shifting disputants
            writing minutely I press for the gold.
Written by Josh (Joshua Bond)
Published | Edited 9th Mar 2024
Author's Note
NaPo Day-27 contribution. ‘Polled’ as in lopped off, cut off (a top of a tree). ‘Dottle’ is the plug of tobacco left at the bottom of a pipe after it has been smoked.

(photo credit: Joshua Bond)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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