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O tell us more about your dad,

or why your second wife went mad,

or how it was you had no choice

but to give those men a voice;

sing that Cornish lullaby

you hush your kids with when they cry,

produce a boiled egg from your pocket,

a flageolet from your jacket,

expand on your idea that rhyme

is dead, or tell us of the time

you dropped your cellphone in the toilet;

a joke, a bird-call - please don't spoil it,

go on with your brilliant proem!

Anything but read your poem.


Don Paterson

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