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Art
Kate Rancid
I am a sensitive poet.
No one understands my art.
I must suffer,
Alone,
In my room,
In the cold,
Hungry,
In pain.
No one appreciates a poet
Until death.
I will suffer in hell
For the sake of my art.

I am a tortured soul,
Dwelling in dark places
Standing between
Shelley
And Byron.
We share the same soul,
A true, deep, sensitive
Artist's.

Oh woe! Woe! is I.
A lonely existence.
My heart is in mortal combat
With a rampant wombat.



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