There once was a writer from Maine
Whom everybody thought was insane.
He wrote big books on evil
and owned pet boll weevil.
No one could cotton to him or complain.
Two writers went to the same doctor’s office on the same day. She told each one he didn’t have long to live.
“It’s awful,” said the first writer. “I’m right in the middle of a novel and she’s only given me six months to live. I’ll never get it finished. What about you?”
“It’s awful for me, too,” said the second writer. “She gave me three years to live.”
“Three years!” the first writer said. “Three years! What’s so awful about that?”
“I write short stories,” the second writer said. “And I’m fresh out of ideas.”