I’ve always had a literary friend
or two, who loves to read and longs to write,
but never have encountered one who’d spend
the time to practice. She awaits a flight
of fancy seldom lifting off the ground,
while he’s in love with deviance and quirk.
They all envision signings but won’t pound
the keys or push the pen and do the work.

It doesn’t matter if your tool is pen
or keyboard, where you sit – what you require
isn’t any magic feather. When
you do you learn, and now you can retire,
that doesn’t mean no work, you lazy slob:
it simply signifies a different job.