7 x 16

I wandered through the literati looking for my voice,
And in the streets of Dublin, I bumped into James Joyce

He was running to the doctors, having awful stomach pain
But he said that he found Dedalus, reading Ibsen on a train

The Wife of Bath I went to next, and knocked upon her door
But alas, she could not hear me, so I traveled to the moors

In Denmark I found Grendel, who left me in a fright
And our ever tortured Hamlet, chasing phantoms in the night

The Hollow Men, their voices dried, could only bang and whimper
And Dylan Thomas in a rage – the man had quite a temper!

Byron and two Shelleys were busy snubbing Britain
The Brownings, they had too left home – with Italy were smitten

My last stop was in Paris to give a Rose to Gertrude Stein
She made a batch of brownies (I must admit they were sublime!)

In searching for the perfect voice, I had tramped through many tomes
And finally had reconciled - the voice must be my own