The creed of the plagiarist (The Wolf of Wordstreet)

As I peep through the verses to seek a grand design
Myriad volumes I pore over, alas, these could be mine
Wily clippers my crafty tool to size and then splice
Plentiful thoughts pinched swiftly, at absolutely no price
Searching and scavenging the landscape of sublime toils
While mind plays its wily games, heart resents the spoils

The soulful sonnets Of Wordsworths and poignant odes of Keats
Lennons, Dylans, Jacksons and Eltons, can’t fathom their splendid beats
Why Shakespeare was a genius and Dickens a master wordsmith
To me they all belong now and I know what to do them with
What a disgrace such magnum opuses, lie strewn apart in times
I bridge them into megaliths and publish them for dimes

But amidst the flaunting glory and the abysmal frenzy of impudence
Is my besieged lost soul atoning while in quest of a profound existence
For it’s easy to veil pilfered verses in a shroud of seeming expressions
But hopeless to hide from a wrecked self with the burden of my abjections
But still unquestionably, I admit, I am a pirate of the ink
Who lives day by day, hunting and hiding in more ways than you think

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