Her rhymes have been written so painfully
That after reading, I'm left quite bemused
She thinks of herself as a raveler
But I believe her a wee bit confused.
I wonder when idle: why the contempt
Of meter, the chutzpah which she displays
While she speeds through her grande poeming process
With rhyme in mind, but no other delays
So unlike myself: I carefully write
And then revise with the knife and my pen
Until the lines flow washing together
Until all is perfect, and only then
And then, only then will I hit 'send'.
Though I am busy, you may depend
On it.
On me.
