Light the Blue Touch Paper and Retire


These words are explosives,
This poem is a bomb.
By starting to read it,
I’ve lit the fuse and run.

Now a crackling spitting flame,
Ignites my words one by one.
My work is burning bright,
Soon it will all be gone.

Then there’s nothing left to burn,
The fuse has reached the bomb.
And with the spluttering of a damp squib,
This poem is done.

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