A while back I confessed on Crimespace that my earliest publications were poems. I was published in a few "little magazines," and I actually got paid for my work in The Runner and Grit. Now and then the poetic muse still seizes me, and I produce poems full of pith and moment. Also full of symbolism and metaphorical language. But mostly full of pith. To wit:
There was a young laddie from York
Who ate all his meals with a spork.
He then tried a spife
But soon lost his life --
Cut his throat while eating, the dork.
Thank you. Thank you very much, ladies and germs. You're a wonderful audience. I'll be here all week.