Don’t ever let the day grow withered and old,
Until the feelings of doubt and sorrow are dissolved,
They say sleep on it and ponder,
But worse advice exists? I wonder.

Don’t ever obsess to follow your wildest dreams,
Because they are the ones, most easily ripped by the seams,
These old bohemians confess that this advice is best,
But surely perfect dreams, don’t leave you with less.

Don’t climb a tree whose fruit you can’t pick,
Even if you clamber high and feast, you’ll likely be sick,
Toss it on a gamble and take a risk they’ll advise,
But for a fall that great? They are telling wicked lies.

The moral of this poem come prose is simple,
Don’t heed advice out of need to be civil,
Administer critique to fables, tales of old,
It is often hollow reasons, that they are widely told.

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