Stinking of hormonal musk,
Completely lost, distressed, distraught,
He's stiffer than an ivory tusk,
Upon this microscopic dot.
And yet he makes the best of things,
Without a plan, without a plot,
Strumming on his fine-tuned strings,
Harping on an afterthought...
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Comments about this poem (Afterthought by Joshua Dinkin )
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