I’m a mouser and a clicker, printers hum and poems flicker
into life upon a screen that I control.
Why I’m sharing this with you I may, later, get to say.
If I fondle, ever gentle, plastic keys the time I’ve spent’ll
weave the fabric of the cloth that binds my soul.
Fabric meant to keep me whole.
With a click I charge the printer; in a fancy font I center
loving words to touch a heart as bards of yore.
Rhythms stolen from the courtesy of Poe.
With a glance my muse dismisses master works that drip with kisses;
to this well I’ve gone too many times before.
Here’s the part you might deplore…
So I tune my craft for others, risking ridicule from brothers
and expose myself, as Em has put it, “nude”.
Emmie D. you may have ventured as to guess.
For acceptance from the masters of the internet, disasters
from the wilder side of me I would exclude.
Kills the risk of being rude.
But my ego, getting older, seems more willing to be bolder
and will post the oddest verse, to my surprise.
I’ll elaborate for you if I knew how.
That explains what you are reading, no more guidance you’ll be needing;
I’ve explained the words you see before your eyes.
As the welcome teapot cries.
As I ply my tongue with bacon; as a poet I am takin
chances that the words I write will yet offend.
My apologies to Edgar Allan Poe.
But I hope that this is pleasin’; maybe cerebellum squeezin’
and I thank you all for reading to the end.
Yes, at last, you’ve reached the end.
Quoth the printer, nevermore.
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