If I earned a dime and nickel
foreach time I raised a sickle
to reap, but found a trickle
where abundance was expected

I'd have basketfuls of change

Inexplicably, it seems
the harvest of my dreams
(the one which ripely teems)
ne'er arrives as projected

Am I wrong to find this strange?

Lo, my hope begins to taper
despite these reams of paper
filled' with wind and vapor
and no substance I can claim

(Excuse me while I weep)

Still, I feel I've been selected
and more than that, protected
so until I stand corrected:
My meagre works will bring me fame

(Or at least a sound night's sleep.)


--jrw 1:28am