The Workings
Wouldn't it be tremendous, wouldn't it be great,
If we could just let words flow, at a staccato kind of rate.
We'd be like human gatlin guns on automatic fire,
gushing words in torrents, like a demented multiplier.
But no, words do not come like that, they're really quite elusive,
it's check and plod and plod and check, to find one that's conducive.
It's why we take so long to write, a sentence that makes sense,
blending, knitting, fitting in, with meaning and commonsense.
And then the final outcome, is there for all to see,
the work of art is finished, applause a guarantee.
But wait, there's something not quite right, something doesn't gell,
There it is, I'll scrap all this, and this one I will re- tell.
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