Part-time Bard

He wisely kept his verse private.
Was it awful.
Was it incredibly bad.
A mess of imitation.
A mass of unwanted revelation.
When you read it,
did you’re eyes bleed.
Or was it simply ordinary;
an all together pedestrian affaire.
Laid down on lumpy Sunday afternoons.
When he wasn’t actually him,
but another he:
A weekend driver.
A part-time Nerval.
Keeping rocks rather than crustaceans.
Sliding peacefully along.
I take it you were his friend,
and party to his inner-bard.
I take it you had his best interests at heart.

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