I come from a family of brilliant poems Inspirational, slick, well-versed. But none of them ever won a thing, Perhaps I’ll be the first. In a previous attempt at a poetry comp Where the theme was ‘innuendo’ My uncle managed to reach a semi And they gave him a Nintendo. But if Uncle P was never crowned a champ Then my chance is looking slim. I’m hardly Willy Wordsworth’s words Or John Henry Newton’s hymn. But with your Amazing Grace, perhaps It is, at last, my time to shine. And I’ll take to the poetry podium As the most deserving rhyme. But if you decided to dislike me And discard me to the side It would mean a waste of all I am And all that I have tried. So reckon me, then beckon me Into the fame my words demanded Or dismiss my base inadequacies Into the rising pile, ‘substandard’.
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