I don’t pretend to be a poet but enjoyed having a go.
It isn’t easy writing, making judgements so intense,
What person is it, first or third, whatever is the tense?
And when that problem’s sol-ved, we then can consider voice,
I’m more confused than ever now, there’s too much flipping choice.
Then there’s the Narrator, what do we make of him?
We can’t ignore him; pass him by, for that would be a sin.
What does he know, what can he tell, is he by chance omniscient?
He doesn’t have to know it all, a bit can be sufficient.
All these choices must be made before we write one jot,
And then we must consider something that is known as plot.
Into this plot, the good, the bad, our characters are woven,
Each one unique, each one alive, each one to us beholden.
And grammar too has much to do with how our pieces read,
To get it wrong would prove to be illiterate indeed,
How much therefore one has to learn to tell a simple tale,
‘Tis enough to make a body want to rant and then to rail.
No, it isn’t easy writing, making judgements so intense,
Studying nuclear physics would have made a lot more sense.