You know I hate to complain but you ruined June again. Now you’re trying to kill July. Why? Must we yank out our passports and fly away to fairer lands, impairing the planet along the way? The solution is in your hands: move over for the sun so we can have some homespun fun. Be a sport!
Love, the Damp Populace of Stockport.
Fact: it rains a lot here. I’m scheduling this poem so I can’t guarantee it’ll appear on a rainy day; but chances are it will, because it rains a lot here. Did I mention that it rains a lot here?
If I wrote a novel, I’d be a novelist. Hollywood would call, and I would write a script. My first casting choice would clearly be Brad Pitt. And I’d make tons of cash on the delicious strength of it.
If I wrote a play, why, then I’d be a playwright. My amazing script would cause a definite bidding fight. Thousands of admirers would flock to my opening night. The money would improve my current cashless plight.
If I wrote a song, I’d be a hit songwriter. I’d celebrate my Grammy win with a cool all-nighter. I’d probably go to jail because I couldn’t get much tighter. Publicity would open up those wallets so much wider.
If I wrote a special exposé for a trashy magazine I’d be a famous exposer of the hidden and obscene. Perhaps bring down the government… better yet, the Queen! I’d relish every cent of the amount of dosh I’d glean.
But if I wrote a poem there’s no doubt I’d stay obscure. After all, who even knows what poetry is for? All it does is leave me utterly poor poor poor. Rhythm and rhyme take time and I really have no more: I’ve a book to write; a film to script; I might do the music score; an A-list event that I can’t wait to prep and dress up for. I know that advertisers will soon be running for my door. I’ll be most in demand for time with the press corp. Writing’s fine in my own time but this writer wants MORE. Much more. So much more. More. More. More. I HAVE to see my face on shelves at the book store. I’m so tired, so very tired, so bored of being poor.