An agent whose contempt I am apparently beneath.

They don't, I'm sure, set out to be intentionally cruel,

But they say, perhaps unfairly,

Though they know my novel barely,

That they: "actually don't like [my] writing at all".

I know it's just one person who I've never even met,

I'm sure he hasn't recognized a single good book yet,

I'll bet he wouldn't know one if it struck him in the teeth,

So why do I feel so upset

To not have met the standards set

By all our friends who work for A.M.Heath?

Do tell me A.M.Heath just why I fail to turn you on,

Are my sentences too cryptic or my paragraphs too long?

Is my prose too esoteric or my language immature?

Is it my alliteration

That elicits your frustration,

Or my manifest reluctance to resort to metaphor?

Is my grammar too post-modern or my structure too conventional?

Perhaps you think my characters are simply two-dimensional?

My themes lack human interest, or my story's lacking beef?

Your view to me means everything,

I live to make your party swing,

So tell me why you hate me A.M.Heath!