Sulking and Sculling

There once was a guy who crafted a poem; it’s possible that you might even know him. It seems that he had a way with the verse; he wasn’t the best, but he wasn’t the worst. They’d come in a flurry, the bad and the good; he’d try to transcribe them as fast as he could. Inevitably, there’d be a cessation; it seems his muse would go on vacation. It was times like these, when the words weren’t flowing, he decided to try his hand at rowing. With a handle and chain instead of an oar, he got in good shape and built up his core. With thousands of others, he entered a race, and managed to snag an age group first place. He thought maybe then that he might see his muse; the subject of rowing perhaps could be used. Return of the linguist: on fire, on fleek! Alas, but instead, just the paddle-less creek. Now bound and determined to settle a score, he’s sulking and sculling towards some distant shore.