What is a line but a queue?

I’d rather stand than sit in a pew

Listening to someone drone on

‘Bout people and times so far gone

That even what’s true has been bent

To serve ends that never were meant.

So on line I’ll continue to stand

My foolscap and pen clutched in hand.

With baited breath I shall just wait

For my muse to strike. Though my fate

Is likely to be thinking of trite

Overused phrases that might

Cause many to shake heads and gasp

At my inability to grasp

The nuances of the tongue.

My praises will never be sung

By my fans nor by a choir.

(Unless I assay to hire

Them at an hourly rate

In which case they’d happily state

That my work was completely first rate.)

But as I stand here in line

Happily biding my time,

It suddenly occurs to me

That for a reasonable fee,

I could hire some sycophants

And write them a few little chants

That could incite a small crowd

To praise me out loud.

And then I could spend all my time

With others forming a line

At my autograph table.

I think I’d also be able

To charge money for lines that I pen.

I not have to work ever again.

But reality bursts into my bubble

And I suddenly see what’s the trouble

With making a hobby a job.

Because if do it I must, it would rob

Me of my autonomy;

Of being totally free

To do as I wish and when.

I’d become a slave to the pen.

(I wrote this in my head, several years ago, while standing in line at a book fair. I was waiting to collect an author’s autograph for a friend, even though I thought the author's writing was schlock. For some reason, my memory dredged it up recently, so I am submitting it here as a means of forgetting it once and for all.) :)