• On my shelf there lies a work of fiction,
    it chronicles my life with clarity.
    Other hands within mock my depictions;
    they fill my pages with hilarity.
    How this plot began, I could not tell you.
    To me, the chapters always seemed so clear.
    Yet I stood back and watched, as I withdrew,
    ghostwriters edit out all I held dear.
    But it was I who let them plagiarize
    my memories and twist the written word,
    for I, callow, and all the word implies,
    my authorship to other minds transferred.
    Yet I believe, if I steal back the pen,
    they cannot take my book from me again.