My editor e-mailed me today.
He hated my poems with a passion.
"...although in a roundabout, non-descript way
they might be called "poems"
to a fashion.
They've all got this wierd sort of rhythmical time.
Exceedingly easy to read.
They play just like music.
THEY ALL RHYME!
Not anything here we might need.
I'm worried you've picked up your drinking.
A volume of metrical verse?
Tell me my friend.
What were you thinking?
You're going from bad to worse.
Catchy, clever, and cute I confess.
Give credit where credit is due,
but taking this sort of thing to press?
My God man!
That'd never do.
It must leave the reader dumbfounded.
A poem isn't something one puts to good use
regardless of how good it sounded.
Must leave you in awe.
Grasping a straw.
Gnashing your teeth in despair.
Questioning word after word's not a flaw.
That's why we love French.
Some old world Greek or Latin.
Though any dead language will do in a pinch.
They roll off the tongue like satin.
If I didn't know better I'd think you a rookie.
Take heed of some friendly advice.
Put each of your poems in a fortune cookie
and sell them with plates of fried rice..."