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Stopping by My Room (and Wondering Who Wrote This Darn Poem)
Whose poem this is I think I know.
It’s not by Edgar Allen Poe,
Nor Langston Hughes, nor Oscar Wilde,
Nor Lewis Carroll—that’s fo’ sho’.
I heard this poem when just a child,
Read by my mother, sweet and mild.
The author’s name eludes me still.
(My hair is mussed, my eyes are wild.)
This poem, it once gave me a chill
When read to us by Teacher Bill—
In all the room no eye was dry.
(I really need to pop a pill.)
“This poem is beautiful,” I sigh.
But I cannot recall the guy
Who penned the words that make me cry.
(Excuse me now—I must go die.)