The Gift Of The Word (Lucky Me, I Have It)
Oh, what a tragedy, what a crime,
So few can dance with words like mine.
They fumble, they stumble, they trip, they fall,
While I weave stories that enthrall.
They try, they cry, they grit their teeth,
But magic won’t grow in barren streets.
It takes a touch, a spark, a fire,
A natural-born, literary sire.
And oh—how blessed, how rare, how grand,
That I hold brilliance in my hand.
While others scribble, claw, and fight,
I simply breathe, and words ignite.
Their prose? A puddle, dull and weak,
Mine? A torrent—fierce, unique.
Their rhymes? A mess, a tragic plight,
Mine? A symphony in flight.
Not everyone’s built to craft and create,
To bend language into something great.
Some wield hammers, some mend bones,
But this? This art? It’s mine alone.
Oh, what a joy, what a charmed decree,
That fate bestowed this gift on me.
To spin gold from ink, to sculpt and to shine,
To take what is ordinary and make it divine.
Yes, they may try, they may even yearn,
But mastery like mine? Not theirs to earn.
It’s woven deep, it’s stitched in tight,
A talent that glows like a beacon in night.
So raise a glass, let’s toast, let’s cheer,
For writers like me are exceedingly rare.
And if that sounds smug, well, let’s be fair—
It’s not bragging if it’s just that clear.
