In Bucyrus, there dwelt a young bard
who banged on her keyboard quite hard.
She pummeled all day,
creating, she'd say,
a masterpiece; but it was marred:
Although it was brilliant in plot,
the characters, frankly, were not.
The publisher said,
"This will sell when you're dead!
Come back when there's depth in the lot."
So, the diligent bard from Bucyrus,
to acquire more gold than King Midas,
pounded more words,
had to stop! 'Twas absurd:
She'd developed acute tendonitis.
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