I wrote a poem once, when I was just a dunce. I made it rhyme and walk in time but still somehow it was a crime. I wrote a poem twice, the second time was nice. As sharp as spice, and smooth as ice I though at first it would suffice but then it gave some people lice. After this I wrote a third, of which I think you might have heard, it really was the most absurd. I wrote a fourth, a fifth, and more insightful poems by the score, a twenty-eighth a ninety-second. I wrote down every thought that beckoned, my loves, my hates, my dreams and fears, my seemingly profound ideas and all the musings of my years. I wrote and wrote ‘til books were filled and all my writing needs were stilled, then, in the silence this created I sat, and patiently I waited for a vision of my muse, bringing esoteric clues and other dainties I could use. But instead She came and said, “I’m sorry but I’ve got bad news. It’s time for you to pay your dues. You’ve mastered quantity indeed but quality is what we need.”