More Work Needed

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Revision, and revision, and revision
clots on this putrid piece from page to page,
to each blasted syllable refusing to rhyme;
and all my time is spent where blighted bits
drag on to fusty death. Flop, flop, short scribble!
You’re but a whining whisper, a saddo squiggle
that mopes and pouts a path along these lines
and then becomes a blot. Such is your life,
an inked-on folly, full of rot and slop,
implying not a lot.