‘Fake, The Original’, by Rob Schackne

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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