Letter From The Solitary Reaper

If you've read 'The Solitary Reaper' by William Wordsworth, you might understand this...
 
Dear Mr. Wordsworth,

Never in my eight years as  reaper have I been so utterly humiliated and embarresed! I have quite a mouthful to tell you, sir, and I'm afraid it shant be poetic!


Last Sunday, the girls and I went up to town for a spot of shopping. I was looking for a pretty little hat when Mary comes up, positively flushed, saying she'd read something amusing in the newspaper. Imagine my horror when I read your flimsy little poem and realised you were talking about me!

And since Wednesdays are always my duty, everyone knew it was me who was reaping when you walked by.

Kathlene tells me that you're a pretty famous poet, what with your poems about bees and flowers and other such nonsense.Well sir, you should have stuck to your plants and butterflies, because you know absolutely nothing about anything else.

You say that I was singing a sorrowful song about a war? You must be out of your mind! I was singing about our village cow, Jenny, who died a few days back. I've never even been out of Yorkshire, and the only fighting I ever saw was when Old Billy got too drunk and slogged the pastor in the face.

And what nonsense about a long lost lover! Do you go around making scandelous accusations of every innocent girl that you see? Dear God, what if Aunt Alice read your poem! What would she think of me then!

(And if  you're somehow referring to that....ahem....incident with Joseph the blacksmith's son, I shall have you know that it was strictly a mistake. He left the next morning and has never even bothered to send me a letter!)

I shall also let you know right away, that your flattery does not impress me. Sound like a nightingale, it seems! I know you're kind of men, always singing ballads and writing mushy romantic poems. Sorry sir, but I'm not the least bit interested in you.

So for the sake of dignity, I implore you to withdraw your poem from publication. Please do so immediately, for I overheard our school's Headmaster talking about incorporating poems to teach students English. Though I'm sure your silly little poem is the last piece of literature they'd ever put in a text book, the thought of students reading and interpreting your ghastly lines gives me sleepless nights.

Yours,
Emily Bunson

P.S: What kind of a blighting idiot doesnt know that nightingales are not found in the desert!

Note: This was inspired from a question given in my semester English paper.

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