Writer, Writer

Writer, Writer, writing shite

in the middle of the night.

My wordy-store has plenty,

my coffee cup is full,

the sentence gun is loaded

the trigger will not pull.

O for the simplicity of a pen,

and maybe I could write again.

Chide me not for fake inversions;

and twee syntactical perversions;

leave me use archaic versions;

cast me not your cruel aspersions.

Extra, extra ex-

perimental,

this painful verse

is most conceptual.

do not praise these broken

lines that age this virtual

page the editor

and his pencil

blue

“Enough!” you cry,

“I say enough!”

I say, you do not

have to write this stuff.