by Con Chapman
Literary agents, also editors,
But most assuredly not my creditors,
Someday they won't mean jack to me—
The people who won't get back to me.
Old girlfriends I find on the web—
One's named Robin, the other's a Deb.
I wonder whatever attracted me—
To the women who won't get back to me.
Publishers, prospects, famous authors—
I've sent them all emails, they can't be bothered.
Their silence speaks loudly this fact to me—
The people who won't get back to me.
The people who've said to me “Let's do lunch!”
Over the years I've collected a bunch.
There may be a hundred, I don't know exactly--
The people who won't get back to me.
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Well and truly put.
My credo: "Born to be ignored."
Con, I ... oh, crap, there goes my cell phone. I'll get back to you!
But . . . I turned off my cell phone for you!
When you hit the big time, they will be all sorry.
I'll be dead by then.
Every morning when I'm having trouble forcing myself out of bed, I tell myself "One day closer to posthumous fame."
Entertaining and witty as usual.
Con, I find that people not getting back to me is the norm. Maybe I'll write, "Somebody finally got back to me." LOL.
Posthumous fame, posthumous fame, posthumous fame
"One day closer to posthumous fame"!
Are you also funny in person?
No--I'm the guy who keeps quiet all night until a flood of alcohol causes me to say something entirely inappropriate.