— Adam Donaldson Powell
The Ballad of Book One-Twenty-One
There once was a writer of talent and pride,
Who wanted the world to be thoroughly wowed.
He dreamed of the banners, the glitz, and the fame,
And wanted the cosmos to echo his name.
He entered each contest a human could find,
Leaving no pamphlet or trophy behind.
One hundred and twenty grand volumes he penned!
(Though “volumes” is stretching the truth, in the end—
For eighty were just the same book re-designed,
In Spanish and German and Swedish combined).
“Neil Gaiman once nodded at me in a hall!”
He’d boast to the people who leaned on the wall.
He clung to a compliment, ancient and gray,
From famous dead authors who’d long passed away.
He wheedled and needled the folks that he knew,
To read it, and edit, and write a review.
He pestered publishers, agents, and aunts,
Till all of his colleagues took permanent stance.
They blocked him on text and they hid from his sight,
Escaping the author’s relentless invite.
With no friends remaining, completely alone,
He sat by the glow of his desktop alone.
At midnight he labored, a frantic old man,
As book hundred-twenty-and-one first began.
He typed out a sentence, then clutched at his chest,
And suddenly took an eternal, long rest.
He died in the dark, with his intro begun—
The tragic, unreviewed,
Number One-Twenty-One.
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