With miles to go before we sleep, those of us who correct, revise, sculpt and—sometimes—translate others’ writing sometimes get a bit frosty about our lot in professional life.
We have no one to blame but ourselves; we have chosen the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.
Here, then, is my take on Robert Frost’s classic poem about solitude and a journey that seems never quite completed:
Cropping Some Words on a Frosty Morning
Whose prose this is, I think I know.
His text first vexed me long ago.
He will not note the tweaks I make,
Nor benefit from what I know.
His syntax is a huge mistake,
I realize as I undertake
To make this muddle crisp and clear
And his bad habits hope to shake.
Lord, how I wish that he were here
To see the way that I adhere
To grammar rules and AP style
But he will never learn, I fear.
My office mates just give a smile
As him I vocally revile
And curse him out with gall and bile
And curse him out with gall and bile.
This article originally appeared on Ragan in 2015.