As a single blue tear trailed down his face.
And there he sat, alone in this place,
Having nothing original to write.
Alone, he takes on an impossible fight,
Hope having disappeared without a trace.
And how he longs to feel her sweet embrace,
For his life and this poem are oh-so-trite.
Now roses are red, and violets are blue,
So knowing this, they danced the night away;
For him and her, it was love at first sight.
Original things in this poem are few;
It's one huge, conglommerated cliche--
Purposely, overly, annoyingly trite.