No one’s politer than a now-published writer
Whose acknowledgement pages are many.
He thanks everyone from his pop, mom, and son
To Mary Lou, Jimmy, and Jenny.

In further good taste, the author, straight faced,
Blames himself for all errors. Poor jerk!
As for me, I write verse. It’s both blessing and curse,
But I’m too blind to edit my work.

I hereby disclaim mistakes made in my name.
Mistakes? They give me the terrors.
From the highest roof top, I’ll yell ’til I drop,
“It's not I who made those damned errors!”

I know how to spell, I punctuate well --
Oh dear, am I putting on airs?
It’s my helpers who err; I forgive him or her.
The mistakes are not mine, but theirs!

Whenever I look at an earlier book
That I published when computers were new,
I go into a rage on the very first page
Where there's not one error, but two.

Between or Among? or I'll Be Hanged if I'm Hung,
Is its title in meter and in rhyme.
Its topic was grammar, and, oh, what a clamor
It made in its own special time.

I go into trauma for each misplaced comma
Or into a fit of grand mal.
Are commas just fools bent on breaking all rules
Or just marching off down the hall?

I live on my laurels which fade like old quarrels
And die on me rather cruelly.
So please, for my sake, don't make a mistake
If you edit for me, yours truly.