Must I awake and wallow writer’s block?
For nothing was inspiring all of yesterday;
I looked and I found myself staring at a clock,
Though clucking nearby, eggs did white geese lay.
Maybe I shall write of warriors past
With muscles of marble, and will force of steel,
Or of beauty that my poems shall make last
In words alone, but still realistic and real;
Like the droppings of horses in neat little clumps,
Or the frozen bugs found on fresh produce.
I shall write of sausages, so pleasantly plump,
All good topics are these, I have no excuse,
So my face is shining and I give no care
As I dunk my head in a Green Eclair.
If anyone can find a common theme in this, I will be very impressed
