They flew at her, pages, from all directions

Retaliation, from years of corrections

All she wanted, was simply perfection

The ones she rejected, had found resurrection

An editor’s job, is never that easy

Some of the books, left her feeling quite queasy

She never fancied, the ones that were sleazy

Those, she tossed, on the pile, marked cheesy

Books are alive, they’re a writer’s soul

Each published volume, a wordsmith’s goal

But these bound beauties, were out of control

Days like these, would always take their toll

On an editor, who, out of the library, ran

Dodging the many books, like a crazed madman

Frightened to death, yes, the books had a plan

And that, my friends, was the end of dear Nan

©2018 Dorinda Duclos All Rights Reserved
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