Kerry Allen

‘Twas three months before the night before Christmas and all through the house,
Every creature was stirring, probably even (with my luck) a mouse.
Six partial/synopsis packages by starry-eyed novelist were assem-bled
While visions of Golden Heart glory danced in her head,
When what to her wondering eyes should appear
But a sneaky little typo overlooked by many a peer!
“Son of a bitch!” she cried, distraught.
“I’ve sent this out there,” she wailed, reaching for a shot
of bourbon to numb the excruciating pain
And singing that song from The Wedding Singer begging someone to “put a bullet in my brain.”

A few minutes later, booze and nerves interacting,
She decided perhaps she was overreacting.
“Phonetically, there’s not much difference between a T and a D.
Maybe no one will notice,” she said hopefully.
Who is she kidding? Is she out of her head?
There’s a huge freaking difference between a safe bet and a safe bed.
The decision-makers seize any excuse to reject.
Overlooking stupid little errors is a fine way to get no respect.
“Maybe they’ll be so engrossed in the story,
Their eyes will skim over like all those befory.”
She read it again, then released a great sigh.
Once seen, ’twas subtle as a fish hook in the eye.

“Well,” she thought, “so much for that illusion.
My dreams of being published were only a delusion.
I have a better chance of winning the lottery
Or being struck by lightning when I take the dog out to pee.”
Then she glanced to the left and her eyes lit upon
A tower of books filled with writing just wron(g).
“Hey, I’m better than that,” she said with relief.
“I’ve snarked most of those on The Editing Polief.”
And so she returned to her contest collating,
Heartened by all of those books she’d been hating.

But due to her fleeting dismay and despair,
She now has more bald spots than curly brown hair.