It's Been Bad Since My Editor Died

It’s been bad since my editor died.
He was the one who had final say on which words should leave and which words should stay. There was sometimes negotiation whilst the reorientation of words took place but he always had the last word.
It’s been bad since my editor died.
His brutal strokes with his big blue pencil were delivered without malice or scorn. After all he was the expert the one with the challenge of ripping the weeds from my lawn.
It’s been bad since my editor died.
He was the one who knew more words than me so naturally I’d accept his decision or face the derision of my peers. I’d just have to rewrite without a fight, I thought.
It’s been bad since my editor died.
Then one day I snapped and slapped him straight in the face. I swear it was only a slap that sent him over his chair where he landed full square on his jar of big blue pencils.
It’s been bad since my editor died.
As he lay there dying with his heart filled with lead, every word that he’d read erupted all over the floor. Where blood should have been there was only the stream of consonants and vowels.
It’s been bad since my editor died.
I buried the corpse and cleaned up the scene then mopped up all the letters that’d get us into trouble before polishing everything clean
It’s been bad since my editor died.
There was no investigation or drawn out interrogation of my editor’s untimely demise. He’d functioned not existed as he catalogued and listed my every crime against prose.
It’s been bad since my editor died.
Like Stalin and Mussolini rolled into one he ruled with a rod of iron. Now that he’s gone I’m on the run and all that is left is Jim.
It’s been bad since my editor died.
It’s been bad since my editor died.
I’ve been mad since my editor died.

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