This sinner
sat before his board of keys
And there he
tapped to form some simple lines
That
hopefully would make his reader smile
Or hold a
pleasant picture in his mind.
So, tapping,
tapping, out the stanzas stepped
Onto the
cyber-page all black and bold
As each idea
leapt from sinner’s brain—
From
darkened depths to soil a field of white.
Oh why would
such a wicked typist toil
To render
written recipes just right?
Perhaps to
purchase up some wrath’s release
Or earn a
flagon in Valhalla’s halls?
No, sinner
long ago had heard the truth:
The favor of
the Reader’s not for sale;
It rather
cost far more than we might pay
With wages
earned a million lifetimes more.
So, happy to
fulfill his given task,
So happy
that One perfect paid the price,
This sinner
tapped his midget masterpiece
And with it
leapt into the arms of God.
MNA 9.29.13
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