"For Lack of Inspiration"
The wretched poet sits and sighs-
And feels onset of his demise,
The words won't come, the thoughts are gone
What can he do but sit and moan?
Oh, what to write? What to say?
And would it help? Perchance to pray?
Perhaps to walk a country mile-
Might energize and make him smile..
And write with joyous lilt and rhyme
Inspired by nature one more time.
Or maybe thumb through photographs
And let his thoughts drift to the past?
Or turn again to well stocked shelves
And into classics deeply delve-
Perusing those who's occupation
Consists of writing inspiration?
Ah, weary brain, and bloodshot eyes-
I guess you may as well to rise,
And totter off and go to bed,
No verse remains within your head.