At times they whisper, shy as maiden aunts
In rough company, or roar loud and shrill
As a drunken uncle teasing with taunts
And slurred voice the effing awful two nil
Defeat of a team whose best fan he will,
He vows, be no bloody longer. Sometimes,
Biddable as perfect children, they fill
The edges of my lines with reasoned rhymes.
Silent witnesses yet accused of crimes
For not exactly saying what we mean,
While writers shrug the shrug of perfect mimes
Insisting that their ink-stained hands are clean.
We form them, join them, let them have our say,
Employ them though they’re never in our pay.