When crossing the bridge I met a fairly famous poet,
he was balancing the bridge´s railing, absorbed in total
concentration; under him the river flowed white and wild.
Then he jumped to safety and collapsed, this because
he was blotto, with the help of a passerby we got him
to hospital where he was pumped.
When the poet was feeling better I asked him why he
was doing this balancing act and he said it was to cure
him of his depression, it had worked wonders, and free
of his compulsion he happily walked home to write
a poem about spring. A fast car hit the curb mounted
the pavement and killed our poet. Alas, when the paper
wrote about the accident it forget to mention he had
been a fairly famous poet.
