Mr Keats, he dead. And Mr Marlowe.
I get the two mixed up. One had TB,
The other lost an eye, but did not write
To urns or psyches. Neither lasted long.
Marlowe, at least, he got to tell a tale
About a heart at dusk. Crepuscular.
Keats worked at CVS or some such place.
Apothecaries have their place, prescribe
And fade to black. I think they hail from Porlock.
Coitus interruptus. Some such thing.
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