“But the girls had moved casually on and her remark was addressed to the premature moon, produced like supper, no doubt, out of a caterer’s basket.” From F Scott Fitzgeralds’ The Great Gatsby.
I haven’t worked it out yet
Not even connived the bet
Hasn’t come to me how or when
Or if it’ll even happen again
Can’t see why it should
Not even if it ever could
Just know it needs to be soon if ever
Or it might as well be never
I’ll try to conjure it up myself you see
But that may be something that can never be
Writing words that are perfect and clear
Is a talent few have and they hold it dear
I’ve had a moment or two in my life
Some of it born of my trouble and strife
Penning things amusing and interesting is so hard
I’d love nothing more than to be an immortal bard
But so it goes and such it is
That at this task I’m really no whiz
Oh sure I can manage a couplet or two
But a whole work of fiction is a much bigger stew
Stay with me folks don’t give up too soon
I may yet contrive sentences that’ll make you swoon
I appreciate your attention a helluva lot
That’s all for now, that’s all I’ve got
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