I started to write something pretty and profound, but I got sidetracked...

You asked to see me; my bus was late…

Come in, we need to chat, have heart-to-heart
Seems you were drunk, on an week-long bender,
In your cups, as it were, when you wrote this…

Sorry to say, my cup ranneth over,
I write all my best work that way.

Look at me, when was the last time you ate?
Man can’t live on drink alone, don’t you care?
Think what you’d do, if you composed sober.

I have, and I have, and I have compost to spare.

What of the Muse, man, gifted talent, where
Do they fit in? Don’t you have any respect?

Myself, what I say reflects what I am,
A quantum stumble into life’s absurd
Moments, best seen through an ice-cold filter
Beaded glass filled with Maker’s Mark amber
Half-empty by morning when the memories crawl in
While you toast muffins, drink sweet tea, shower,
Shave, dress for a long day dotting I’s, crossing T’s
As any good editor should, I suppose…

Process is what makes poems profound, worthy
Fare for everyday readers, don’t you see?

I don’t write fair, fodder for everyday readers.

How can you request to publish, waste ink,
Print complete rubbish that doesn’t sing with rhyme?
My time is of value don’t you see that?

Rhyme is where you find it, if should you look
Underneath the words, between buried lines
Whatever price you put on my work
Underscores my music, what I choose at the time.

I’m sorry to say, we just can’t have that.
Propriety insists on rhythm, sense,
Dignity, majesty, nothing obscure.

I’ll leave before my manners are clouded by judgment.