The house is quiet, the end of day,
my wife and kids are far away.
In spite of all, and come what might,
I seize the chance to sit and write.
I take my old and trusty pen,
I’ve had it since I don’t know when,
a fresh new page is put in place;
it’s white and large, with empty space.
To help the mind get up and go,
to help aesthetic juices flow
and help my humble prowess shine,
I think I’ll take a glass of wine.
So now it’s time to settle down
and pen this verse of great renown;
majestic words to fill the page,
which echo down through time and age.
But nothing comes, no lilting verse,
no thoughts invade my universe;
no inspiration comes to pass.
Perhaps I’ll take another glass.
Oh dear I seem a bit confused
and stumble over words I used.
So, quick, before the close of play,
I take my pen and write away.
Next morning comes, with bloodshot eyes,
I strain to read my crafted prize
with words well tuned and erudite.
But what I see gives quite a fright:
I dream of your bodily beaut,
I find you so cuddly and cute.
It’s oh, such a shame,
I can’t play your game.
You see, I’m ash pished ash a newt!
For Carol's Competition.