Interviewer: What is the symbolic significance of the birds in so many of your sex scenes-the white bird that flies out of the gondola...?


Alfred, at least I'm trying:
Sometimes I fail, there's no denying.
I try for grand, melodic verse;
Where better men would play it terse.
I write poems that make you scream,
That waste paper, by the ream.
I make jokes that fall down flat,
Sometimes I'm bad, I'll admit to that.
And, oh, the essays, oh, the prose.
It's scandalous; you thumb your nose.
You never find it good enough, saying
"Terence, this is stupid stuff."


It is fun to criticize,
to point out flaws, to chastise,
To pick apart my feeble word,
Label all of it absurd.
When you blast my every letter,
I assume you'd do it better?
Show me, show me, I long to learn!
Improvement is my chief concern!
Be specific, with your critique,
That I may hone my sad technique.
Alfred, let's not waste time,
Please teach me the art of rhyme.


If all you have is disapproval,
and demands for swift removal,
of all my efforts from the shelf:
Keep your comments to yourself.

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