Oops

I had a good poem in store for tonight, 
But writing in bed caused a quick loss of might, 
My pen streaking sideways and trailing away,
As my eyes grow quite heavy, begging sleep to allay 

This serves a poor substitute, written with haste, 
But to miss a poem so early would be a disgrace,

This serves as good practice, a challenge of sorts, 
Of rhythm and meter and rhyming discourse

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