TYPE DREAM ...

[Even a Rhymer can dream ... ]

The novel I shall write some day
I may then re-write as a play.
A film tycoon will buy the rights,
And I shall see my name in lights.
In peerless prose and matchless style
I'll write a tale of sin and guile,
Or I may write of high finance,
Or espionage, or fine romance.

The characters, of vivid strength,
Developed through the novel's length,
Will hold my reader's mind in thrall
As plot and sub-plot rise and fall.
The story-line, complex, involved,
Will leave no question unresolved,
And publishers, the finest firms,
Will all compete to meet my terms.

Produced to critical acclaim,
My Play will meet with instant fame.
To calls for "Author!" on First Night
I'll bow and smile, in shy delight.
Directors, Actors, Peers and Dames,
Will telephone, and use first names.
The play will run for years and years,
Each Curtain met with standing cheers.

The Film, produced at huge expense,
Will have a budget that's immense.
Location, costume, casting, set,
More sumptuous than any yet.
The trophies that are won at Cannes
Will gratify a million fans,
While filming archives will record
Eternal fame as my reward.

My life thenceforth will not change much:
I'll still enjoy the common touch.
The fortune that attends success
Will scarce affect the way I dress.
A jewel or two, designer suits,
Perhaps some high-heeled, golden boots.
At literary luncheons seen,
I shall preserve my modest mien.

I'll have to entertain a lot:
It makes good sense to buy a yacht.
I may acquire a country seat,
A villa on the Isle of Crete.
But none of this will turn my head:
I may write one more book instead,
Explaining how I came to write
The book that brought my gifts to light.

But wait: this journey of the mind
Has just one tiny snag, I find.
To mention it I hesitate,
And yet it could affect my fate.
The novel that will make my name
And bring me to eternal fame
Has yet to be - it's too absurd.
So far, I've written not one word.
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