Write, Write, Write
On the blank, white lines, O Me!
And I would that my pen could scribble
The thoughts that arise in me.
O, well for the newspaper man,
That he writes for his living all day!
O, well for the artist true,
That he has something novel to say!
And the printed pages come
Along with their accompanying bill
But O for the sight of an acceptance check
And the sound of a Muse that is still!
Write, Write, Write
And the page is so clean, O Me!
But the fleeting grace of a thought that has fled
Will never come back to me.
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This page last updated on June 21, 2002