by Bruce E. Stoker, 2003
There are strange things done ‘fore the presses run
by the folks who edit text.
And none dare tell why the words fit well
Lest our authors in turn be vexed.
The proofing lights have seen queer sights,
but the queerest they ever did see,
was that time with great rage I rattled a cage
when I redacted old Edgar Lee.
Now Edgar Lee was from about ’63
an editor of great renown.
Why you’d think to correct any text that he’d checked
even once, God only knows.
He was always right and the prose always tight.
It just fit; you could tell.
Though he’d often say in his erudite way,
“Bad prose I can easily smell.”
On a typical day I was editing my way
through a bland manuscript.
Talk of bad prose, a stench there arose;
through the verbiage it practically dripped.
Then I jumped to my toes, as my eyes jerked and froze
on an image I hated to see.
There on the last page, I saw in horror, then rage,
were the initials of old Edgar Lee.
I knew right away, with growing dismay,
he’d finally dropped the ball.
But I also knew, as my consternation grew,
I’d be blamed for it all.
“He’s been here for years,” would ring in my ears.
“There’s nothing that he couldn’t edit.”
Try to complain? I thought with disdain.
If I did, I’d lose any credit.
Well, I thought for a second, what I’ll lose can’t be reckoned.
So why not give it a shot?
If I have to lose face and take his disgrace,
I might as well build it up hot.
Taking up my red pen, giving pause once again,
I gutted the poor thing.
Removing all tone, stripped it right to the bone.
That’s when the phone started to ring.
“Hey, Bud, It’s just me. Would you check for me
to see if I left a book there?
I was in ’till real late with a job I just hate.
About two I gave up in despair.
I’ll be up right away, and I’ll cart it away
before the boss can see.”
Then standing bereft, I glanced to see what was left
of the work done by Edgar Lee.
The old guy strode in, with a slight, sheepish grin
and he asked, “Is it still here?”
And as my heart raced, I turned and I faced
the music I surely would hear.
“What’s this?” he muttered then suddenly sputtered,
“You edited me, you miserable hack?
I promise you now, don’t know when or just how,
I’ll get you! Watch your back!”
And every day I continued to pray
that Edgar would leave me alone.
But I could tell from his rant, that my chances were scant,
and I began to feel “accident prone.”
Throughout the next week, my life growing bleak,
I swore I would not give in.
I checked all my food and looked under my hood.
Then it came to my box marked “In.”
An envelope, non-descript, overnight it was slipped
into my cubicle next to my chair.
It was stuffed, overflowing, a single flag showing,
to mark that an error was there.
I looked at it, and I thought a bit,
then I grabbed it with a sigh,
“If that’s what I’m thinking,” my hope suddenly sinking,
“I’m surely about to die!”
Opening it wide, I glanced quick inside
to confirm my horrible fears.
There it was, plain as day, just a quick note to say,
from the most irritated of peers,
“I got you, you jerk, now everyone at work
can see what a slacker you be.
I found a mistake, you cheap little snake.”
Signed simply, Edgar Lee.
Then I turned to the spot, to see what he got,
wondering about what he found.
The page was white, saving one small blight,
a mark Edgar made in red.
A caret was there, placed with great care,
a single missed comma to mark.
Was this all there was, all that harping and buzz,
to come from Edgar, that nark?
I scratched at my head, nothing to dread,
not more than a snotty retort.
How silly was I, to think I would die,
to think I had feared his report.
I pulled off the note and ignored what he wrote.
“The guy’s losing his mind.
He’s nothing but wind, and I’m sure he’ll rescind,
unless he’s also blind.”
At the next editors meeting, his glance was not fleeting,
I think he wanted to shout.
I shut him down quick, just to savor the lick
of pointing his error out.
“Edgar, my friend, this has just got to end.
You’re starting to sound like a kook.
Serial commas are out; please check it out.
It’s in the new house-style book.”
There are strange things done ‘fore the presses run
by the folks who edit text.
And none dare tell why the words fit well
Lest our authors in turn be vexed.
The proofing lights have seen queer sights
but the queerest they ever did see,
was that time with great rage I rattled a cage
when I redacted old Edgar Lee.