When I was at high school, my English teacher was one Reverend Alan Dale. One day, handing back a marked essay, he said, "Please stop torturing your syntax". I was a bit puzzled. I wasn't sure what he meant. It sounded as if I had done something very cruel.
I asked Dad about it and he said, "Well, Zimble, what he means is stop trying to fight the problem. Make what you say mean what you want it to say and keep it simple."
So here we are, twenty-something years later, with a little bit of remedial nonsense.
I asked Dad about it and he said, "Well, Zimble, what he means is stop trying to fight the problem. Make what you say mean what you want it to say and keep it simple."
So here we are, twenty-something years later, with a little bit of remedial nonsense.
Oh, tortured syntax now it's time to go,
For years you've slowly sent me round the bend,
It's time for you to have the full heave ho,
No longer can you call yourself my friend.
I've twisted, turned and tweaked my words about,
My commas strafe the lines on every page,
I flip my phrases over, inside out,
Your machinations put me in a rage.
Who cares if Captain Kirk to boldly goes,
Some things a tortured syntax cannot save,
We need the prose to spark in molten flows,
Not plod like un-dead corpses to the grave.
So, tortured syntax leave this pen, be gone!
I've had you up to here for far too long!
No comments:
Post a Comment