The wonderful thing about writing

Is that it’s different for you and me

No two lines alike

There’s no need for spite

In each author’s own space we read

The glorious hymns of Byron

The romantic florets of Keats

But at least I can spell

I’ll deal a death knell

Without my heart skipping a beat

I’m published, encouraged

You’re petty to defend this

Insulting others is the mark not of skill

But of a poser who doesn’t know how to

Do it for real