Just to fill some time in, she sat and wrote some words;
alone and in the gloaming her mind it went a roaming
thinking things absurd.
She thought about a lot of stuff of this’s that’s n’ t’others
She thought of people, grans n’ kids, of aunts n’ dads n’ mothers
The walrus and the carpenter had nothing on her thoughts.
She had a mass of stories, but they had too many warts.
So she put them on her computer
Scrabbled them round and then,
Came up with a hooter,
To start all over again.
She tried all through the summer,
And through the winter too,
She tried in bed, and in the bath,
Her stories to make true.
Then wow-she had a brainwave that would save a lot of fuss!
“I’ll tell the tale my dear, of you, of me, of us.
Coz no one will believe that my tales are really true,
So I’ll write them down as fiction,
Yes, that’s what I will do”.
She scribbled and she scrabbled,
Through hours of dark and light,
She put the words together,
Till she thought that they were right.
She sent them here she sent them there
But all came back- rejected.
And why? Because they were true life
And just as she suspected.
They really could not handle them,
The tales of reality,
They all preferred pulp fiction
To the tales of you and me.
we are told that we each have a book in us…
also there is a saying ‘truth is strangeer than fiction….’
in this i have amalgamated the two