Organized by Collection
Coffee House AdvertisementOnce upon a Friday dreary,
More Like This
from 7 to 9 I wasn't weary
over a cup of coffee, steaming,
to the sounds of poetry.
So distinctly, I remember,
'twas the 10th day of November
and each stage light's burning ember
wrought its ghost upon the floor.
I never nodded, never napping,
for on the microphone, a tapping,
'twas an artist
singing songs no mortal dared to sing before.
And the poets, never quitting, still are sitting, still are sitting
on the couches, that are falling from the stage onto the floor.
For admission, just five dollars
it will free you from your choler.
Merely this and nothing more.