In Other Words/Us Potes

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Us Potes
Swift was sweet on Stella; Poe had his Lenore;Burns’s fancy turned to Nancy And a dozen more.
Pope was quite a trifler; Goldsmith was a case;Byron’d flirt with any skirt From Liverpool to Thrace.
Sheridan philandered; Shelley, Keats, and MooreAll were there with some affair Far from lit’rachoor.
Fickle is the heart of Each immortal bard.Mine alone is made of stone— Gotta work too hard.
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