   When I think of poetry, I think of maidens in gossamer gowns, skipping through meadows with baskets full of flowers. Can you imagine a poet going out for a beer with the guys after a hard day of writing poems? I can’t. Poetry is for wimps. It’s all about doilies and butterfly wings, or stuff so personal only the writer could possibly know what it’s about, which really makes me crazy. And half the time it doesn’t even rhyme anyway.  
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