The Plagiarist Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

He made, each day, another list
some late at night when he got pissed,
a thousand books strewn all around
new phrases of old masters found.
Of course, he chose some quite obscure
no soul would be exactly sure
of déjà- vu, and thus assume
that in that little cranial room
a wordsmith's shop was resident
where bold and truly competent
creations could be made from scratch,
each day another brilliant batch.
One day the Vicar stopped to read
he said, my son, you have, indeed
extracted morsels with much skill
it must have given you much thrill.
I take it, words like pre-exist
would never plague a plagiarist?