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Rated: ASR · Poetry · Death · #2306587
A poem intended to be tragic, but all I have shown it to have found it humorous.
A tree stood upon a ledge.
It stood there to guard the edge.
A man walked up to the tree.
In one hand, an axe, held he.
He was set to fell the wood.
He was certain that he could.
He took a swing of his great axe.
The tree collapsed from his attacks.
Something else collapsed as well.
The tree, the man, and the ledge all fell.
Now no tree stands upon a ledge.
There's nothing more to call an edge.
There is no man to chop the tree.
He'll never return to his family.
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