I sit and write; I offer up my heart
though dozen other tasks more pressing loom.
My critic has it easy for her part
(I see her shadow growing in the gloom)—
She’ll say, this stuff won’t stand to any scans
of meter, subject, beauty, or of rhyme.
You fool! You know that e’en your so-called fans
will just suppose you didn’t take the time
to polish, think or work to hone your craft.
She’ll say, my child, you’re nothing but a hack,
this taking up the challenge, simply daft.
(She knows just where my soul is holed and black.)
And so, dear editor, confirm this fear:
Send your love note; I will wait (cringing) here.