Cut By Football Poets
¶ 1
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I’ve been cut by Football Poets.
Should have seen it coming.
Used same rhymes too many times.
Not nuanced, really: numbing.
In early starts
I’d cut their hearts.
My metre’d duck and swivel.
Lately all I offered
were clichés, puns,
filler, drivel.
Thought I’d make a comeback
with Haiku, alliteration,
as if I could avoid the sack
with just some new formation.
Sophomore jinx?
Much more, me thinks.
I’ve given up a yard.
Shown all my ploys,
gone out like Moyes.
I’ll never be a bard,
and, so, I must acknowledge
I was way out of my league.
Witness my thesaurus-fraud-found-
fitness rhyme fatigue.
What these guys write
day in, day out.
is . . . well, is just poetic.
Leaves me gasping
to play out
my literary toe-kick.
Cut from Football Poets.
I’ll be back, though,
you can wager.
Today I spied a classified:
“Football Poet Manager.”
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