Wit

I don't think fast. I'm a wordsmith, not a wit.
Confrontations with fast talkers make me feel like a twit.
This has its upsides. High-pressure salesmen don't make me buy.
They make me run headlong. I don't even try
To figure out if what they are shilling is any good.
So I don't often impulse buy. (Knock on wood.)

But there are downsides too. How do I sell myself?
How do I give someone a part of me that isn't off the shelf?
If people would just stick to the script, I'd be a hit.
I can remember lines. I can even ad-lib a bit.
But someone always goes and asks something off the cuff.
And I just can't say 'um', 'ah' and 'err' enough.

I know exactly what to say, how to say it and who to say it to
Twenty minutes ago. But at the time, I don't have a clue.
Give me a pad of paper, and I can write a killer line
Case in point - this little poem of mine.
As you hear this, or read it, I'll bet it seems easy as pie.
Guess how long it took to write it. No, don't even try.

I'll just tell you. A good half hour. And that's not including
The half hour I just sat there with drops of blood extruding
From my forehead. In the classic writer's pose.
Staring at the screen two inches from my nose.
And even that's not including the week I spent kicking
Rhymes around, hoping I'll find something sticking.

Poetry doesn't come easy for me. I have to pick and choose.
But as long as I have time to think, I won't lose
My composure, or the gift of preconsidered gab
Unless you ask me for an on-the-spot opinion. Then I'll grab
The first thing that comes into my head.
It'll be stupid. And it won't rhyme, either.