I Can Only Imagine How N'Ice E-Z Floe

I can only imagine how n'ice e-z floe... Tubby in the calving throes breaking free and clear shepherding, milking, and honing rambunctious as bovine bris versus being stymied courtesy cow - wordly bull aiming writer's block for drought of creativity. Asper this instance, when a dearth of ideas like a charred bait oven finds me (a Brahms man) looking Bach at drawing board and/or the clock as if inspiration can be found teasing out whimsical child like spontaneity recalling hickory dickory dock rather than exacerbate mental paralysis, akin to an invisible vice grip, which tension eventually far worse than bill lee esse ness, which former grips with irony my chin, I try release - singsong restraint and chill, ready to whip out power drill not surprised finding sawdust, viz of course after numbing skull sticking head in deep freeze or mounting temple on dry ice, without receiving nary a cavil lack of creative noggin fill intense concentration invariably heats up "thinker" as if being scalded, skewered, sussed out on a barbecue grill, (which fixed attention), never ever engenders positive flow of ideas, but absolutely ideal for reducing a molehill from a mountain dew, nevertheless within ma mind, before long prolonged cessation to brainstorm induces ill humor succumbing into torturous mental state (fall of the cider house rules usher), non poe whet tick dark age, whar ah felt jill ted loom min hated with panic ready to kill... mice elf (cue Stuart Little), cuz dem lil cerebral cogs and wheels malfunction for more'n a mill yen times prompting to scout graveyards for fresh corpse, and lovely bones if results rendered nill jet over to Doctor Frankenstein, even if aye gotta hightail to Trans sill vein ya, unless.... perhaps ye kind reader twill donate yar viable gray matter tummy (right after ya die) denny ya will almost be him morte till!