So should I buy a big bad house
with a secret boudoir and reclining couch
where distraught writers could disappear
for a week or forever til the ink runs clear
and poems dance out the door?
Should I have taken my own advice
and burrowed my way to a village of mice
where a tender youngster could've disappeared
for a week or a summer til thoughts ran clear
and the fear was healed and repaired?
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