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A parody/homage to my favorite poem by the incomparable John Donne |
As virtuous writers type wildly away And whisper to their plots, to go, Whilst all their normie friends do say This plot is great!, and some say, no… So let us sit and make some noise No tears for work that we won’t do T’were profanation of our prose To tell the laity it’s through Moving of the tale brings harms and fears Men reckon what it did, and meant But trepidation of our peers Though greater far, is innocent Dull, sublunary scribblings Whose souls are bare, dare not admit Writer’s block, which doth remove The thing which keeps advancing it But we by a plot so much refined That ourselves know not what it meant Inter-assured of the tale Care less for time on writing spent Though we be two, we are two so As stiff twin compasses are two Thy plot, the fixed goal, makes no show To move, but doth if the writer do And though it in my office sits, Yet when my fancy far doth roam It leans, and harkens after it And grows a page, becomes a tome Such will it be to me, who must On holiday so swiftly run Thy plottings make my circle just And one day soon, I’ll get it done |