Some poets dream of metre and scheme, of sonnets and couplets that scan,

But there’s one little word, though it seems quite absurd, that exposes the flaw in their plan.

There’s an amber skinned fruit that has been at the root of the nation’s poetic malaise,

This everyday citrus can find poets witless as they stare at a blank page for days.

If one pairs clementine with lemon and lime repetition...

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