NaPoWriMo #8

[an ottava rima.]

maybe it was the thirteenth pint of beer
perhaps it was the smoke that filled the air
we try and meet up once or twice a year
with our words gathered up and brought to share
we are called forth to stages with great cheer
to give our words unto a crowd with flare
like some kind of poetic Rites of Spring
when the poets gather, it’s quite a thing

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