(I blurb only for the dead, these days)
By Margaret Atwood
“You are well-known, Ms. Atwood,” the Editor said,
And we long for your quote on this book;
A few well-placed words wouldn’t bother your head,
And would help us to get in the hook!”
"In my youth,” said Ms. Atwood, “I blurbed with the best;
I practically worked with a stencil!
I strewed quotes about with the greatest largesse,
And the phrases flowed swift from my pencil.
Intelligent, lucid, accomplished, supreme,
Magnificent, touching but rough,
And lucent and lyrical, plangent, a dream,
Vital, muscular, elegant, tough!
But now I am aging; my brain is all shrunk,
And my adjective store is depleted;
My hair’s getting stringy, I walk as though drunk;
As a quotester I’m nigh-on defeated.
I would like to be useful;
God knows, as a girl
I was well-taught to help and to share;
But the books and the pleas for quotes pour through the door
Till the heaps of them drive to despair!
So at last I’ve decided to say No to all.
What you need is a writer whoʼs youthful;
Who has energy, wit, and a lot on the ball,
And would find your new book a sweet toothful,
Or else sees no need to be truthful.
Such a one would be happy, dear Editor, to
Write you quotes until blue in the brain.
Itʼs a person like this who can satisfy you,
Not poor me, who am half down the drain.
So I wish you Good Luck, and your author, and book,
Which I hope to read later, with glee.
Long may you publish, and search out the blurbs,
Though you will not get any from me.