When I consider how I spend my time
Submitting stories to some great slush pile,
Where often the first readers aren't sublime
Or even competent to stop and think awhile,
Where diligent adherence to assessment schemes
Results in declarations that my genius does not fit
And pours cold water over all my fondest dreams
Before they've time to read more than a page of it,
Then, then, methinks no justice dwells
In any publisher's cold, stony heart,
No future ages shall my awesome words retell
Or on a marble pedestal set them apart.
And yet - undaunted, here I am anew
Sending my treasured work, Dear Editor, to you.