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MetaWhore
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On Poetry She sells her body for just the thrill
Of feeling needed like the town tramp;
And we buy into her every time.
She shares her bed with strangers,
A beauty with whom any whose path
She has grazed have become enthralled.
I know her quite well; she's a good friend.
I'd be lost without her companionship;
She's the shoulder on which I cry.
Even though I abandoned her for a while,
She waited for me under the sheets
On the other side of happiness.
