The birds are in their trees,
the toast is in the toaster,
and the poets are at their windows.
{...}
The proofreaders are playing the ping-pong
game of proofreading,
glancing back and forth from page to page,
the chefs are dicing celery and potatoes,
and the poets are at their windows
because it is their job for which
they are paid nothing every Friday afternoon.
the toast is in the toaster,
and the poets are at their windows.
{...}
The proofreaders are playing the ping-pong
game of proofreading,
glancing back and forth from page to page,
the chefs are dicing celery and potatoes,
and the poets are at their windows
because it is their job for which
they are paid nothing every Friday afternoon.
( Billy Collins )
[ The Trouble With Poetry - And ]
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