I’m not the sort who sniggers,
At an editor who fails to be right.
Who loses the rhyme and rhythm,
And struggles to know how to write.
The world can seem harsh and mean,
So I’ll not call him a literary quack.
Oh no I’ll not point the finger,
Or be caustic behind his back.
The past is no place to dwell,
So we all must move up to the present.
He’ll find his way back,
So I’ll cut him some slack,
But next time I won’t be so pleasant.
© Copyright Philip Barton, July 18th 2026, All rights reserved
