There’s a wickedly inept woman from Wyoming
Who has well & truly gone about wrecking my head
She’s all I ever think about as soon as I wake up in the morning
Last thing before I go to bed
You see
She won’t accept my poem whatever it is I might do
Good writing but she still finds an error, even if only a few
Dunno if she’ll pay me either ’til this thing hits the spot
Even if it has in fact hit that damn spot ten times over
Now I know what they mean when they say artists sometimes finds it hard to remain sober
A good poem suddenly opening itself up to the rot
I don’t respect her anymore
‘Cos even though she has admitted to being creatively blind
Her creative streak stuck on rewind
I have to say, she’ll still one of a kind
But she won’t respect my craft
Everyone else having read this poem considers her to be rather daft
Here’s the deal
Do I take the money & run, if there is any money
Or let it go, write her off as a customer just too God damn soft
She’s an ol’ woman with wrinkles, not a scratch on Lara Croft
A favourite of mine
Ah, maybe once upon a time
Isn’t that kinda what I’m doing right now though
Writing her off to the last
Is it really wrong to want to push this poem over the finish line
Or am I the one missing my cue
The one who is blind