Ode to the Editor

He strode through the jungle of wordage,
His scythe so sharp and mean.
He raised it high and swung it so,
No verbs did it redeem.
It sang and swung its fell delight,
Great acres did it fall.
No mercy in the pale moonlight,
No word was e’er too small.

Behind him came his acolyte,
With torch of flame and fire.
Upon the wreck of stories told,
Inferno made higher and higher.
‘Twas always thus, they came by turn,
To edit.
Slash and Burn.