There once was a writer from Schenectady
Whose writing was full of complexity
He plots were convoluted.
His characters quite putrid.
He was left all alone intellectually.
There once was a writer from Schenectady
Whose writing was full of complexity
He plots were convoluted.
His characters quite putrid.
He was left all alone intellectually.
Filed under 2020, Monday morning writing joke, Poetry by David E. Booker
Tagged as complexity, joke, limerick, Monday, Schenectady, writer, writing humor