Poetry Class

Will poetry be the death of me?

This my friends, we’ve yet to see

“Here’s a tree,” says he,

“Go forth and write.”

(In five minutes or less)

“Or take the river over hither

To see where it takes thee!”

Oh, I sweat, my pen’s gone dry

My brain has turned to dust

He turns to the sea of eyes:

“Your poetry, you WILL discover

In three weeks, or FRY!”