An Editors Lament
The editors lot, just like a
cop,
Is not so very easy.
For he’s got to read all sorts of screed,
Which sometimes makes him queasy.
For by the time he’s read a few
He realises that he's due
To type. And that's not easy.
But, casting aside all doubts and
woe,
To his typewriter he will go,
Sit down and look with mounting fright
Upon those keys, all black and white,
Just waiting to be tapped upon
In turn. And that's not easy.
For he remembers his last attempt,
Ended up looking most unkempt;
With finger ends all black and blue,
He’ll have to use another two
Instead. And that's not easy.
And so he starts to thud upon
The keys. And after not so very long
He’s written 'Stalagmite’ and 'Stalactite’,
And he’s even spelt it rite write right
Again. And that's not easy.
At times he needs a dikshunary
For words he finds a bit contrury.
And other words he has to guess,
Where the authors hand is less
Than steady. And THATS not very easy.
But, bit by bit, and letter by
letter,
He finds his typing is getting better,
He gets to the end and his face is alive,
He puts it all down to his vigour and drive.
And then, with a yell,
He shouts...’BLOODY HELL’.
For he sees with a frown,
That it's all upside down,
And that's definitely not very easy.
Anon. (M. Booth)