Typos Like A Rush

The feel of face pimple, mountain of topography 
A rush of molehills sat firm on the face, picture perfect  
Looking back at me in mirrors, does my bump look big   


Holds in form the same gravity of annoyance 
As typos firmly sat in notes, pee ka boo
Poems and essays written, on thoughts  


Steven Fry thus quoting from Oscar Wilde
Thus wanting to make a point, on peek-ka-boo
Once included a note to his publishers


Saying "I will leave you to tidy up the woulds
wants, wouldn'ts and should, 
will and shall, should and whiches"
Etc etc etc etc.....on and on and on and on, pee ka boo 


I wrote a poem, an epic poem 
And got the title all tipsy wrong
A few typos, nicely stack like they belong 


Hidden from view, on first read
Second read, third read, blind 
Still hidden from view, pee ka boo 


Only to stand out like a post 
With flag on mountain 
On the critics first read 

So I ponder with frustration asking questions
Why does such glitches  always happen
Not always, sometimes, but too often, sometimes 


Sometimes it takes a whole day and more 
While typos play pee ka boo, hiding and poking out, bumps 
Like a fresh pimple, ready to be popped, squeezed out 

Would, for will, there and their
And all the other misfits, misfits 
My mind reads over, blank to blind 


At least I have 
Steven Fry and Oscar Wilde 
On my side, looking at the bigger picture 

Best have a second read before the critics' read 
Just in case, I overlooked another pee ka boo
Misfit, hiding from plain view