It seems some writer’s pleasure to conjure
Words of shimmering beauty, rich and rare
Verbose prose, wrought in great style and glamour
Express and expose; whose cupboards are bare?
It’s all about me and the things I see
My feelings and thinkings and fantasies
It’s all about them, what they did to me
Their foibles and turmoils and angst at me
Let a word put in edgewise be sharper
To cut to the chase, to search and to sow
To draw a map to a hidden treasure
To plant a seed so a mustard tree grows
Why write of our sorrow and misery?
Why not instead rewrite our history?