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What will be the fate
  of this smug little poem?

Will it claw its way into

   a reputable tome,

Or languish forever,

   encrusted in dust

Like a chipped and deformed

   former emperor's bust?

I fear there is

   no guarantee

One may purchase or win

   in a lottery

To preserve such squibs,

   such tadpole-y scribbles,

From basement entombment

   in a box with their sibbles.