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.
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