I used to have a poem that wouldn’t let me sleep
So I sent it to a Grandpa
In the country.
After that, I wrote another
And sent it to my Mom
To keep it in the attic.
Later, I kept on writing others
And, with sinking heart, bestowed them with relatives
Who vowed to give them good care.
So then, each new poem
Had someone to take it in
Since each of my friends
Has, in turn, another friend
That you could trust with a secret.
So I don’t know by now
Where this or that verse is
And should the thieves come to my house,
Much as they’d torture me,
I couldn’t say anything but
They are in a safe place
Somewhere in this country.
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