Far from the Otago Frost

Clever phrase, bit of poem,
Dropped into a massive tale.
Oh the joy of writing young,

For least and most successful
The same, less or more, a spell
Before age rimes resentment

Of reviewers, of readers,
Of the lack of reviewers,
Lack of readers, whatever

Presence or absence galls, scalds,
Or freezes the satin sheets
Of language made for word sails.

But no more of this. I quote
Anonymous and famous
Nearly anonymously

Because I still love the words,
However words betray us.
Is it not kindly, bestial

To be devoted to that
Which has so often failed us?
Casanova loved satin.