There once was a writer of satire,
Who feared his profession would soon expire.
No matter what he would write
Reality very soon made it trite,
Or worse, make it something to desire.
There once was a writer of satire,
Who feared his profession would soon expire.
No matter what he would write
Reality very soon made it trite,
Or worse, make it something to desire.
Filed under 2020, Monday morning writing joke, Poetry by David E. Booker
Tagged as David E. Booker, joke, limerick, Monday, poem, satire, writing humor