Write What You Know

Writers! Writers! Write what you know. That's what they say, all the pro's. Phooey on that gobbledygook. I mean, get real, take a good look. Let's say you have a great notion To put words of a book in motion. Want to write about real cowboys? Means you can't come from Illinois? Poets are sensitive, even men A saga poem they'd like to pen. Of women in love and their pain They can't now if their name's not Jane? Well, maybe. Maybe they are right I'm not trying to pick a fight. Seems to me that writing is fun You can shoot sans owning a gun. Think of the love sonnets and such You needn't have lived all that much. What about all those dreams of love Too ugly to be deserving of. Halloween makes us conjure up ghosts Don sheets, we're monsters we can boast? Ghouls and witches in poems do clash Oh! Where is that real monster mash? Sweet thing wants to celebrate her cat On her knees should she eat a rat? I'd think that sweet thing would say no, She'll imagine it; let her words flow. Poets, novelists, are writers is not this true? Does this have to mean they haven't a clue? They can't expand their horizons from mundane And the dullness to something wild and insane? They write about murder if that's their bent Without encasing someone's feet in cement. Some write from deep held passionate zeal About sunrises, sunsets, tho blind in the real. The agonies of war can be expressed in truth By a middle-aged wife full of gin and vermouth. And while we cannot all write most profound I still say we have more intellect than a hound. Which gives us the ways and means to think About life in other places we can be in sync. I don't think that crime queen Agatha Christie Left to kill and maim after her tea and biMaurice Yvonnescuits.