Novelists infuriate family and friends,
Not to say colleagues and students
And superiors as well, all spied upon,
By revealing homely details of them
And their conversations that they now wish
They'd kept to themselves. Poets,
On the other hand, infuriate by parading
Details of their own selves that family and friends,
Not to say colleagues and students
And superiors as well, all wish
They'd never, ever had to read.
It's a sin, but at least I'm not a novelist.
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