Thankfully for the world, Robert Frost was a poet who won as many as four Pulitzer Prizes for turning his observations of rustic life into complex philosophy through poetry. But I wonder what was to become of his poetry if he was stuck in this time, and forced to make a living as a copywriter, and turn his observations from a plethora of reference material like Award journals, newspapers, TV, internet, FB etc. into a simple sales pitch through words. My guess is he may have ended up writing something like this:
Whose words these are I think I know
His campaigns are from across the sea though;
He will never see me stopping here
To read his copy from an old One Show
The security here must think it queer,
To read something from the yesteryear,
In between deadlines on a Sunday night,
Surely the darkest night of the year.
He gives my shoulder a gentle tap,
Wondering if I was having a nap,
Because the only other sound is of the AC
As I was lost in the tome on my lap.
The words in there are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have too many deadlines to
keep,
And many lines to go before I
sleep,
And many lines to go before I sleep.
