Sunday, 21 September 2008

Paper Whims and what they mean.

I gave you a ten-pence broadsheet
Which had what you wanted inside
Though it didn't print the way I meant it
A marriage of your views and mine
Editor presiding, of course.
Not my title and half my style
Your words through me
Ardent and mild, I'm a convex lens
Reflecting you correct enough.
I could have said other stuff
But didn't. My offering lost out
To what's in store, someone else
Coming after can do it better.
Sorry. Grey page, black letter.

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