The novelist frowned,
And in his stupor drowned
As he um-ed and ah-ed
About the poetic devices
To which he was bound.
“Why can’t I escape?
From the uniform shape
My novel has adopted
And be like a director
With a finished videotape?”
He sighed...
And oh how that night he cried
And pondered and panicked
As to why his beloved
English teacher had lied.
Writing is not fun;
This novel will never be done!
He ripped the tape
From the typewriter,
Thought of one last pun,
And just before ending it all
A deafening call
Resounded and bounded
Off each wall
And a chilling drawl
Began to fall from the lips
In the light of a lunar eclipse
Of his cat, Martin,
And talked of many, many
Very good tips
For writing his book
And with a look
Nothing was hopeless,
Nothing was lost
For all had he mistook!
Writing was his calling,
Only had he been stalling,
From creating a masterpiece
Though he said to himself
“The title’s appalling!”
So the novelist again sat down,
Combined a verb and noun
And typed away for days
Fuelled with café.
The world would him renown!
l.s.
l.s.
