A poem whose lines end with twelve given words in any order:
angst, depth, plinth, bilge, film, breadth, pint, scarce, month, wolf, sylph, gulf
I found my Soho local and I dropped in for a pint
Of champers, not my usual muddy bilge,
And drank until these eyes had lost their dark, discerning depth,
Behind a bleary, alcoholic film.
No longer poor, outside my door there lurks no howling wolf,
Trafalgar Square has offered me a plinth
To celebrate my sculptor’s skill of boundless scope and breadth
And show my latest work – The slender sylph.
Such sweet success I’ve never known, so sweet that I can scarce
Believe my carved creation, born of angst,
Will, fairer than the Square itself, gaze out across that gulf
From high upon her plinth for many a month.
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