An Ode For Frances, editor

I'd Cut Most Of That Out, Johnny Boy

Her perception so clear; her intent to aid.
Yet her advice strikes a blow to my gut.
My pearls, my wisdom, eternal like jade,
“Not bad,” Frances says, “but, I’d cut.”

As a consulting surgeon, she’d be fine,
Discussing treatment options for the butt.
“Since it happens to be yours, thank God, not mine,
Preparation H might help, but I’d cut.”

No doubt if her phone rang late in the night,
“Hi, Frances, George W. here—man in a rut.
Can’t quite grasp whether to run or to fight.”
She’d reply, “No disrespect, sir, but “I’d cut.”

A farmer in Illinois studies the blazing sky,
“Corn needs more time, wait for rain, or what?
Harvest now, or trust in God On High?”
Frances would say, “Go ahead and pray, but I’d cut.”

Samson and Delilah, a handsome pair,
Behold his magnificent mane and her sexy strut.
She plotted against him, coveted his hair,
Like Frances, Delilah said, “Nice curls, big boy, but I’d cut.”

A lazy poet, long ago, penned the briefest verse,
Titled "Fleas," its theme was open and shut.
The only line, "Adam had ’em," might seem too terse,
But, I still think—Frances would say-- “I’d cut.”