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The poets write poems of poems,
the singers sing songs about songs,
and each thinks he’s one of the other,
so nobody’s where he belongs.

The epics have turned into dribbles
of pop culture yearning for fame;
the Odyssey takes you to Sony --
they’ll swap you a soul for your name.

Your face launches millions of youtubes,
and Paris will feed you for free --
but ten years adored? Try ten minutes!
(Five more if there's nipples to see).

Your battles will rage on, internal;
the “serious artist” will bleed
and beg you abandon this lover,
who covers your visions with greed.

And far in the distance an echo
of purpose oblique to the breeze
brings hope for sensational rescue
(with photographs; left profile, please).

But the oceans are empty and silent,
all the heroes have run from the fight,
and the sirens have no-one to sing for
as they whimper in Morphean night.

The poets have finished their poems,
and all of the songs have been sung,
so nothing is left but the lotus
and photos of when you were young.

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