How Floe Nice Tubby In the Throes

How... Floe N'ice Tubby In The Throes... (breaking free of writer's block) Asper this instance, when a dearth of ideas like a charred bait oven finds me 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 sing 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 on a barbecue grill (which fixed attention), never ever engenders positive flow of ideas, but absolutely ideal for reducing a mole hill from a mountain nonetheless within ma mind, before long prolonged cessation to brain storm 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 (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 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 im mort till!