I’m waiting for the book deal to land itself in my lap
I’ve been waiting oh so long
I have to admit
I’m rather tired of writing poetry
Maybe I need to find myself a new hobby
Something that won’t have me sitting with my laptop in a lobby
Looking to bring the smile to a publisher’s face
I’ve done all I can do
Written a few
Too many maybe
I’ve dropped the punctuation
‘Cos it causes me something of a situation
Could do without that
The book deal might just come
When I least expect it
When I haven’t written anything for a time
While sitting on my bum trying to find my smile
I think about the call
Then wonder if it’s that big a deal
I mean it is for me, no two ways
It’s what makes a writer
Isn’t that’s what they say?
And if I do get it will I leave it at that
Tell myself that I’ve crossed my finish line
Take the advance and run like an ungrateful literary rat?
I just don’t know
Don’t know if I’ll be all that important to you the ordinary Joe
You’re the ones I write about
After all
Will you parade me about the place
Or watch me fall?
Is it too much pressure to adhere to standards
Set by the likes of Heaney
I fear it might be, maybe
There’s something going on inside that won’t let go
Something eating away at me
Causes me to go through damn near a pack of cigarettes a day
What can I say
A book deal and no more OCD would read perfect for me
More OCD and no book deal
That would spell a life full of pain not to mention cheap meals
Onwards and upwards
‘Cos it’s all I can do
Take it one step at a time, enjoy the ride
And if I do make it big
Don’t suddenly hide
Above all else be sure to keep a smile upon my face
And if needs be I’ll be prepared to join that rat-race
Either way, as I come to the end of my time
My last line
I think happiness across the board and a book deal will do just fine