Tale of the Midnight Ghost WriterOnce upon a midnight dreary
Sat a writer all weak & weary
Her eyes upon a lit up screen
Her fingers thunder across
To her limousine
Like the clicking of Manolos on marble
Her gorey stories of Fashion's past
Pile onto the lit screen's vast
If that's not all how 'bout some flowers?
Keep adding them until they're Bowers
Hearts are good, how 'bout some of those..
They only add emphasis to her prose
Keep clicking & clicking on through the night
Stopping at daybreak to yawn in the light
Fold up her wares, retire to sleep
Tonight she'll be back, the blackness