There once was a man so wise /
he read a book on disguise. /
And to this very day /
when he wants to slip away /
glasses and a mustache he applies. /
There once was writer of acknowledgements /
Who was in a pickle over compliments. /
To make them clear and sincere /
And not sound in arrears /
Or as if she were paying emoluments.
There once was a author from Brisbane /
who thought a writer from Lisbon /
tortured language in a way /
that was “an assault and pepper spray” /
a syntax attack, if not misprision.
There once was a writer ignorant of history, /
For whom dates and names were a mystery. /
Did it happen there? /
Did anyone really care? /
It let him tell the story so simplistically.