Oh, my inbox is bursting—yes, every single day,
With a dozen shiny emails that sound the same way.
They promise me wonders, success by the ton,
But they don’t even know what it is that I’ve done.
Some offer me services I already provide,
Like selling me tools where I teach and guide.
“We’ll get you published,” they say with a cheer—
Not knowing I’ve published many times this year.
Then come the sweet notes with their sugary praise,
Admiring my book in the most no-specific ways.
“We loved it,” they write, without giving its name,
And that’s how I know it’s a scam in a frame.
A cleverer con tries a trick that’s more slick.
They mention the title to make their pitch stick.
But they never explain why the book meant a thing,
No insight, no reason, no song they could sing.
Why don’t they tell me? Well, that part is clear—
The reason would sound rather silly to hear:
“It’s important to promote your great book …
So you pay us money. Now give us a look.”
They offer me millions of readers in sight,
But all that I’d get is a bank account light.
For the truth is embarrassingly plain—
Their goal is my wallet, not literary gain.
So I laugh at these emails, so eager and bold.
Their sparkle is plastic, their promises cold.
But wisdom stays warm when saying how to be:
“I don’t want to know them if they don’t know me.”
