I've been known to dabble in poetry.

A stray verse here or there

A sprinkle of ill-timed coquetry

Phrases elegant and fair

I'm beloved of my readers

When the poems aren't meant for them,

But my muses care so little

For their wordsmithed diadems.

And so the former asks me,

If I shall be a scribe for hire.

And I reply so woefully

To send the cheque by wire.

The man, he has a heartache

That he's been longing to express

But his pen is running empty

And his heart, a wholly mess.

Her smile is that of nightmares

It chills his very bones.

But he says that with every stare

He never feels alone.

Her eyes are green and sparkling

Rotting apples in the sun

I write some hollow epithet

And wish the meeting would be done

She sings off-key for every tune,

And never finds her note.

She's as pale as the silver moon

And as ship-shape as a boat.

She volunteers her time, he says

To tell stories to the blind,

But she reads them mediocrity

Because beauty wastes her time.

Her cooking is magnificent,

If your taste buds have been singed.

She's so completely innocent

She'll never see you cringe.

He tells me of his longing

Of their fate entwisted path

And I almost dare believe him

Until I see her photograph.

But it's love as love intended

Devoid of sight and wealth,

And as for the man I vended

He's hardly a prize himself.

I'd taken his every penny

So my choice was all but gone.

I must spin this tale of fortune

For two most unfortunate ones.

And so I set upon my labour

Dictionary at my side

Thesaurus wanting diligently,

To resuscitate my pride.

I tossed hither words and phrases

And failed with each attempt

So I began to work in phases

Of depression and contempt.

With the precision of a science

With every word in memory

I produced my magnum opus

Of self-indulgent flattery

It gushed blasphemous piety

And ghastly, perfumed scents

And it made a shining deity

Of the lowest suppliant.

And thus I manufactured tears

As my employer could not but cry

For he proclaimed this was sweeter stuff

Than his mother's lullaby.

I took his gracious beckoning:

His thanks for what I'd said.

Perhaps I'll have my reckoning

But not whilst my words are read.