Glut of magnificent forgeries
Duped experts adding value
Originals tired of being one-offs
The field looked very strong
Favourites given strange odds
On the home stretch all is silent
Punters tear up their forms
No one wins back the farm
With a forged betting slip
Canned music in the street
Sunset reproduced on the news
This poem is already written
In a hundred identical ways
This conversation has a used air
Sorry the subject is second-hand
Clearly I failed in originality
I only paint what I see, my dear
Just come to me now and tell me
Everything good will be copied.
© 2016 Rob Schackne
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