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.
Sunday, 21 September 2008
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