The once was a writer of mystery /
Who had a sordid and checkered history. /
They say in another town /
She let her husband drown /
Because his reviews of her writing were blistery.
The once was a writer of mystery /
Who had a sordid and checkered history. /
They say in another town /
She let her husband drown /
Because his reviews of her writing were blistery.
There once a writer from Cancun
Who wrote about things way too soon.
It was all in future tense
And made very little sense.
Especially about the spaceman riding a bassoon.
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 Charlotte
Whose latest novel featured a protagonist harlot.
Her crime was a sin.
And his sin was where to begin,
So he wound up thinking about it bars a lot.
There once was a writer from Tennessee
Who wrote several good mysteries.
Her writing wasn’t horsing around
Except when horses were around
Then her private eye was riding high for his fee.

The pro in procrastination does not make you a professional writer.
There once was a writer from St. Paul
Who could only write well in the fall.
With the leaves off the trees
She saw her neighbors with ease.
And then she could record it all.
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.
There once was a writer named Stone
Who tried writing on his smart phone.
It started off fine
But then he got behind:
All the apps wouldn’t leave him alone.