After Too Much Indexing 🤯


Indexing is the devil’s very work
Of all I do, the one most wish to shirk
In corners of my conscience doth it lurk
With a most snide and most complacent smirk

Have I just now a lovely sonnet writ?
I may take no satisfaction from it
Not even as much as a moment’s bit
Before my indexing gets in a snit

Endlessly complaining of neglect
Pointing out each tiny self-defect
I cannot seem my poor self to protect
From its demands that I forthwith perfect

Each entry, be it so minute and minor
Most would be hard put even to define ‘er
Such abject stress put upon its designer
Endlessly to re- and re-refine ‘er (!!)

I know that now you’ve read these lines you see
Yes, see, and pretty much effortlessly
What a disaster, post-labor’ially
(After too much indexing) these brains be…


The poet/editor of this website is physically disabled, and lives at a fraction of her nation’s poverty level. Contributions may be made at:

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