”Maybe people think that I am strange;
diss me when I’m out of range;
criticise me for the things that I’m not;
but, I’ve a secret… I write… a lot.
I’m a Crime-writer, I’ve written a novel,
and they think I’ve lost the plot.
Not naturally selected;
‘I should be respected!’
I write fine romances;
Georgians at dances,
Poldark on heat, and the like;
If you have no respect
for the writer’s aspect;
critic, go get on your bike!
Or my Comedy novels; with fools who dwell in palaces, not hovels;
there are rechargeable battery hens,
who live in lands inhabited by semi-retractable pens;
there’s a talking gnu
who says ’Huffle-de-doo!’
and a dog eating toast replies ’Pipple-pea-pa-poons!”
You can see a pickle that flies
from Pillar to Post
in the most fantabulous of submersible balloons!
I’m… a writer, you see;
I write things for thee,
I just need to get my self published, my friend.
But, the agents are frugal,
Be they Callum, Mary, or Dougal,
and it’s ’No thanks, not today, try again!’
This continual rejection,
I dwell upon;
and, upon reflection…
…I’m a writer,
so, I take up my pen,
chime the hour, like Big Ben;
and write my next line