As the author picked up his pen,
A thought ran through his head:
“How will they remember me when
My life’s spent and I’m dead?
Will they read the books I’ve written
And mourn the loss to art?
Will they say, ‘With work was he smitten;
Too bad he had no heart.’?
When they reflect back, will they smile
At each witty anecdote?
Or will they put my works on trial
And condemn all I wrote?
I trust the small things I do will tell
My love for people then,
And hope to be remembered well
When I set down this pen.
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