The Phone Book
I wrote a novel on my phone
To rival War and Peace.
I worked on this, and this alone,
In hopes of Fall release.
For months I madly slaved away;
“Just let me write,” I cried
And faced that little screen all day
Until my eyes were fried.
Exhausted, yet I dared not stop;
So many meals I missed
To see my name in bold atop
The Times best-seller list.
Revised and proofed, the tome I penned
Was finally complete,
And then instead of pressing Send,
I somehow hit Delete.
A thousand pages ceased to be
In less than one short second.
Rewards and honors? Not for me!
(The Times list never beckoned.)
I’ve since recovered—sort of—yes,
Though all my inspiration
Abruptly left on more or less
A permanent vacation.
The money lost and time it took
Now honestly disgust me,
But damn, I wrote a real good book—
I guess you’ve got to trust me.
Apposites Attract
She said, “I want a man who sings and cooks.”
It’s how I won her heart, I guess,
Although I really must confess
I long to have her love my light verse books,
The ones I wrote before we met,
Which haven’t sold so well as yet—
Say, what if she just wed me for my looks?