They hung out together, all of the writers from one city
Pity because even though there were wonderful words going on about the place, each and every one of their faces went raspberry read as soon as a woman tried to approach
They may have had the written word down to a t but there was no such joy when it came to having a drink late at night, chatting up the party-hard girls from their city
As I say, pity really
None of them had a girlfriend because they spent far too much time with their heads in the sand, hands doing the only kind of ninety they knew, pad at the ready, churning out an all too mesmerising slew of words
‘Til one day a famous model came along, one who loved the written word, found it rather absurd that this bunch had not been lapped up
She took her time before hooking her man, the young fella who always sat in a corner, the one who they endearingly referred to only as ‘the pup’
He wined her, he dined her, but never said too much, ’til it became all about two bodies between the sheets, that’s when he could never quite get enough
The perfect man for her and even though all that he saw was a jaw-dropping beauty, he had to leave her behind all because of his insistent duty
In order to write the best book in the land his deft hand wouldn’t allow for any such sidebar
So this is what he did early one morning, he hopped in his car after storming her between the sheets, brushed clean his teeth in the rearview mirror and retreated back to where he had come from, a cave where writers went to repent as well as make a dent when it came to the written word