A Writer Riddle with a Twist
As a child, I worked in a boot-blacking shop
And the place made me quite cratchitty.
Society was bleak.
The rats did squeak,
But debt prison held no curiosity.
I vented frustrations in magazine form
Then picked up a paper to write.
Completed a book.
And with Grip, my writing took flight.
I laid myself down in a coppery field
To spin tales no one forgets.
Chimes for your ears.
For one hundred years.
And they haven’t gone out of print yet!