For Abi Sutherland

There's something wicked sitting on my desk,
a pile of essays written in great haste
in language that's quite twisted and grotesque
a violation of all good sense and taste;
now you accuse me, oh how much it stings,
of magically taking all your time,
when you're the one whose pen (or keyboard) sings
in thoughtful, elegant, well-chosen rhyme.
It's not my fault or Serge's, I must say,
that work and family come to intervene,
in your most subtle inditing of a lay
that makes us laugh while being quite serene.
I'm finished now, and worried that you'll curse
my lame invention in much better verse.