A spark of genius, nothing more

This is the story of someone who would
Never tell you what he was up to, but he could
Do a lot of good things if he knew that he should
Do those things, but if not, he was up to no good.
Thus the story ends
Without even beginning
Because it depends
On the rhymes always winning
Just a play of words and
A trip to absurd land
Nothing fancy at all
Hit the wall
With a ball
And remember the fall
Is it autumn, my friend?
Is it close to year’s end?
And this poem, if it is one,
Will be finished, then it is done
So if you know how
Cut it now.
But somehow I do not want it to end
I am smelling the salty pang
Of weeping defeat, and to amend
This, let’s go out with a bang.

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