He’s tall and charming, but don’t be mistaken,
He has all the appeal of a large hungry kraken.
Your words he’ll devour left right and centre;
He’s really becoming a scary tormentor
“You split the infinitive,” he’ll moan aloud,
“and the tense of your M.S. is under a cloud.”
You think splitting the infinitive is not as much fun,
as splitting the atom right under his … seat.
He phones you at midnight; your defences are down,
and you stutter and fumble and sound like a clown.
He declares Sally the yak, might run and leap,
but it’s quite beyond her to drive the pink jeep.
Edward dies in a plane crash in chapter four,
yet ten sees him blithely walk through the door.
Oh how could you make such a terrible mistake?
And you weep, sob and moan until it’s daybreak.
“Fear not, oh writer,” the kraken announces.
And for one fearful moment he looks ready to pounce.
“I’m here to advise you, lend a hand and assess,
get rid of your faux pas, and unsightly mess.”
“You need my help to see this through,
to make sure you show instead of just tell;
for though you may think I’m a heartless predator,
I’m really and truly, your loving editor