I must call up my publishers quickly.
plead, wheedle and kick up a fuss
if I need, but they must make corrections,
for I’ve just read this book by Lynne Truss.
And it’s clear that I’ve misused a comma
near the top of page seventy-two,
plus a colon on page thirty-seven
and perhaps an apostrophe too.
Now I dare not be caught out in public
lest readers should laugh and grimace
and declare that my poor punctuation
is an absolute national disgrace.
Once I used to derive satisfaction
from the pleasure that writing could bring.
But now due to wretched Ms Truss, well,
I’m reluctant to write a damn thing.
And each morning I spend simply ages
in a state of blind panic and fuss
over whether all yesterday’s pages
would deserve the thumbs-up from Ms Truss.
For, if not, she might just tell the public
that I ought to be plucked, stuffed and trussed.
And I don’t want to be one more writer
who’s the butt of Ms Truss’s disgust.