They tell me every writer has a masterpiece inside,
A finely crafted argument, immaculately applied.
Then after seventeen revisions, when the deadline’s overdue,
They send the whole thing over with: “Could you give it a quick one through?”
I’ve kept managers out of mangers,
Stopped a canal becoming anal,
Changed “pubic” back to “public”
And rescued many a church annual.
I’ve turned an angle to an angel Just before the hymns begin,
Sent the dairy back from Anne Frank
And put the diary back in.
I’m a proofreader, copy editor too,
I fix the little things you didn’t know you’d managed to do.
If I do my job correctly, no one knows that I’ve been there;
If I miss a single letter, suddenly everybody cares.
I’ve fought a war with semicolons,
Removed exclamation marks,
And watched executives debate commas
While the sentence fell apart.
Track Changes is a splendid tool
Until the final page contains:
What on earth does this mean? Has anybody got any brains?”
Now AI will take my job, Or so I’m often told;
It writes a strategy in seconds
With confidence uncontrolled.
It cites papers never written, Journals that don’t exist,
Then calmly tells me Dickens worked for Zoom
And firmly will insist.
So perhaps machines will take my job,
Perhaps my days are through.
But who’s going to check what they write?
Apparently… me too.
I’ve heard, “This really is the final one,”
Then Final Version Seven arrived,
Followed by Final-Final-Three,
Still somehow very much alive.
Until somebody asks the fatal words:
Which one’s the latest version?
And suddenly nobody’s sure.
I’m the last frail line of defence,
The final pair of eyes,
Between a polished publication
And an unpleasant surprise.
I merely stop the Chief Executive—
Becoming the Chief Excretive.
And somehow that’s my contribution
To the annual report.
One letter.
That’s all.
Enough to turn “public consultation” Into something considerably more intimate.
That is why you employ a proofreader.
Preferably before publication.
(c) Jon Wensley
