I understand why you won't read my book.
I get it that you will not take one look.
No one has told you that my yarns are bright
Except me - I've dared proclaim it’s all right
To waste some time rambling through rippled prose,
Seeking delights in another's warped throes.
But you'd rather trust bland commercial thrusts
And let your mind fill up with windy gusts.
I see shops' shelves stacked with chic-lit's stories,
Politicians' lies about false glories,
Histories rewritten by media hacks -
A sorry waste of trees put to the axe.
So I’d rather stare at starry night skies.
You can’t make me don a trickster's disguise.