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
