I am a writer


I am a writer

Not a take-a-bull-by-the- horns type of fighter

Neither a fly-by-nighter

Nor a cigarette lighter be,

Obviously.

I could be a little

politer

If I tried

But, enough is enough

And a Bard should have a little ruff
I am

In essence

A type of writer

All keyed up

To press the letters

Into the page

(It used to be all the rage)

Letters forming words

To be read

Or performed upon the stage

‘I’ should have been born

In a different age.
I do not do ‘serious’ works

And, sometimes, it is difficult to see

How I could be any

Triter.

Though I do try to

Be brighter

Than a sooth-sayer

Of the night

Err though I might

Err what is in sight

Ermine cloak

Instead of fur

I can do no more

Than but

Err

Spread thinly

As my talents are

Upon the bred

Of my upbringing.
And, here, I shall commence singing
“This ‘Bard’ of whom

To you I speak

Inflicts his words

Upon the meek;

He uses song

To stun the strong

And, as he has such little voice,

His songs…

Aren’t long.”
Now wasn’t that a dainty dish

To set before the King?

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