My Editor, My Predator

I don’t think I could live with a copy editor–
I consider the species my natural predator.
Always asking me about names and dates,
that’s no way to live, much less mate.


“What the ever-loving f**k?”

 

You can imagine the talk at the breakfast nook
as she peers at you as if at a book:
“That word you used, it’s very colloquial,”
I’d take that as a warning, and not a joke-i-al.


“You made me laugh!  I’m sure it was unintentional.”

 

“Your participle’s dangling” she’d crack on the sly,
causing you to look down, and check your fly.
“Please list the location of all your sources,”
which you’ve long since forgotten, among other of-courses.


“You can’t possibly be serious.”

 

“How do you know what you say you know?”
she’d inquire if you said it was starting to snow.
She’d probably ask you to fully explain
how you knew wet sidewalks were caused by rain.

In matters of style, she’d lean towards Chicago,
which is perfectly fine, as far as that goes,
but every now and then, you’d have to break free
and follow the handbook from the guys at A.P.


“Is English your second language–or third?”

 

They tend to be squeamish, and slightly school-marmish
about words that are vulgar, but do no one harmish.
I could list a few, but not on this paper,
it would give my editor a bad case of the vapors.

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