He thought of
writing the "War and Peace"
Or maybe "The Grapes of Wrath,
But Tolstoy and Steinbeck had already
seized
His fame and his success.No wonder he turned to
poetry next.
He rhymed with infinite skill;
Shakespearean sonnets were his best,
But nobody published him still.
It finally came,
his lucky break,
His hand was shaking and yet,
He scribbled a line for eternity's sake,
An instant before he fell dead.
Published on stone
for ages to come,
He is an author, at last!
His ultimate work is skillfully done.
Read it and cry, if you must:
Here lies the
author of this epitaph.
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