One fed in a page, another took it out, and the third stacked it up. A fourth man rang up my order. A fifth smiled and opened the door for me as I left. It's really getting to be a dog's breakfast to get something published. Sometimes I feel as if I've written a symphony, hired an orchestra, then gone out into the middle of the woods to play it.
Nobody hears it but the chipmunks.
It's now ten o'clock in the morning and 96 degrees. Dear Editor, Perhaps your readers can identify with my poem.