Loaded For Bear, Cocked and Pointed

This vexing pencil in turgid fingers I gracelessly hold Sorcerer's lead conjures up casuistic captions, fools' gold My peripatetic purple pen winks at my commands Dancing to a distant drummer on sun-scorched parchment sands A cunning keyboard mocks me, in cast-iron briefcase locked Contrarian bent, loaded for bear, at my Muse pointed and cocked What with erasers missing and forever low on toner ink It's a wonder the poetic process has not driven me to drink!