An Overnight Success

 

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For thirty years, he worked and slaved,

to write the book his passions craved,

writing lots of prose and poetry,

that no one cared to read, but he.

 

Submitting writing, day and night

to publishers, who'd always cite,

"Thank you, sir, it's not quite right..."

Undeterred, steadfast he'd write.

 

He wrote of magic in the air,

a dragon cruel, young maiden fair,

of goblins, ghouls and ghastly girls,

black pirates robbing them of pearls.

 

A message finally came for him;

We like your style, so on a whim

decided that we'll take a chance

and publish you, a deal, perchance?




 

His book, Deserts of the Dying Son,

soon topped the charts at number one;

Kimmel, Letterman — they all called.

Come on our show, you must tell all!

 

The years went by, two sequels came,

now writing was his claim to fame.

One final book would finish it,

would end the tale, it'd be a hit.

 

Before our author reached the end,

a notice to his fans, he'd send,

to tell them all he'd given in,

no more ideas would come to him.

 

You can't quit now, it isn't done,

does good prevail, has evil won—

what of the queen and dying son?

You must go on, you've just begun...



 

The press were called, the scene intense,

the stage was set, his fans — incensed.

All clamored in to hear him speak,

then he began, so softly meek...

 

Lowering his head, he barely spoke,

more of a quiet, whispered choke;

For many years, I was denied,

so many nights, I sat and cried,

 

I'm grateful people love my work;

He flashed it then, a vicious smirk;

So sorry, folks, you'll never know

exactly how the end will go.

 

Alhough his fame was fast and fleeting,

his name, the critics kept repeating,

he smiled to show his discontent —

then left them wondering what he'd meant...







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