Sonnet 10
I steal more soda from McDonald's fount
and start a poem before I had to go.
I've stolen words from each and every haunt
under every camera, none of which can know
my conspiratory scratch. It can be read
but only barely, one for the courts
to translate the translation from my mind
acquired to and fro my weekend ports.
And would they charge? I bet they'd charge,
claim I shoplifted their marquee,
scam its letters, and hid them in my barge
of a notebook, scrambled up by me
into these words, that couldn't possibly be mind,
surcharge added the next time I dine.
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