TO THE EDITORS

To every “ed” who’s stretched in mind

Who’s had to fly outside the box,

Who’s bit a tongue in speaking kind

Of words unorthodox

‘Tis torture in that stretch;

Machines ne'er did so much.

Those dread devices with the cranks

Can only stretch by touch

‘Tis mind o'er matter, thoughts to scatter

On raging desert wind.

O, ye, Eds, come chase our storms

Until our stories end!

We'd write to spite and write to please

And write to make ye think,

And giggle, we, as we’d sit ye

Nigh insantity's brink.

‘Tis bitter sweet that stretch ye'd meet

On verbose prose we’d write,

And on we’d type into the night

to lend ye eds a fright.

But dearest Eds, to all of you,

We’d fret not of your stretch;

The tenebrous mind can take the pain

That eds so often catch.

                --Monty Wheeler