It is the wee hours of the morning
I can still hear my inner voice whispering
Poems of praises I spread through the net
I see it slowly unfold in my computer set
For poetry's juice continue to flow
I have to sit down and type for it to grow
I cannot sleep on it then have it lost
I have to feed it in the computer host
It is my way of praying my friends
I have to capture the inspirations he sends
Then the poem becomes a worthy offering
A thank you for the blessings from our King
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