I sing a song of thanks to a legendary master
Who undertook in print to rescue from disaster
A play that entertained large audiences in Woodside,
(Though unlike him they couldn't tell its bad sides from its good sides.)
He says his criticisms were to make my writing better
And so I'll model future work upon his letter
And the articles for which he must race to cash the checks.
(Amazing that the Echo never calls to get them back!)
I'll ramble in confusion just like the streets of
I'll jump around so often I won't remember what I mean.
I'll write about a movie! Then a sequined skirt's appearance!
I'll digress! Misunderstand! Produce unequaled incoherence!
I'll enter a comic theatre with a doleful face of gloom or
Else my articles alone won't show I lack a sense of humor.
I'll publish factual errors, and sure's my name is Surly,
I'll complain of silly jokes made by a pretty girly.
And when I reach an age when I should long have been retired,
I'll demonstrate I can't distinguish parody from satire,
(A mistake you might expect from an ignorant young whelp
Despite how Webster's dictionary or a sophomore might help!)
Each time I write I'll take great pains to show my large vocabulary!
Expose such lengthy verbiage you'll soon summon the constabulary!
I'll always make it clear how great I look in my own eyes
And every time it happens, I'll say I hate being compromised.
In person, I'll accept free rides and drinks, and as a bonus,
I'll make my sight and smell remind you of the homeless.
I'll talk non-stop, repeating tales no less than sixty times,
Until you shriek, "Such punishment deserves a worthy crime!"
-- August 2003