Ghost writer

All murky she sat,
with her palindrome pen,
as she flavoured the localized ether.

And her Hallowe’en cat
was asleep once again,
as it lay on the carpet beneath her.

When she’d written her prose,
and its vapours arose,
she danced (for the spirit was willing).

Her compadres were lazy,
and the rest had gone crazy,
so the market was hers for the killing.

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