Fate, ye tempting mountebank,
Whether spurious or not,
Can prove to be, to our free will,
A specious asymptote.
Atropos, supercilious,
Cuts our time; We must defer.
My mom paid me a dollar
To write this poem, so blame her.
Never Discuss A Desire To Expand One’s Vocabulary With A Maternal Figure When Poor…
Filed under Poems
