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Empty Headed Moron
Eagerly on my word processing app
My fingers pressing keys Tippity tap
Penning my classic in verse
Thinking the fog will disperse
Yet there’s no classic just absolute cr*p
Hell have no fury like cranial mist
Even the mild mannered would clench a fist
Aghast as my rhyme and meter take flight
Dreading the empty page night after night
Eureka proclaimed… but the notion I sense
Doesn’t take shape for this poet is dense
Must I endeavour in vain one more day
Ordering words in a haphazard way
Rabid strikes of the delete key
Only conspire to defeat me
Now I’m a nitwit with nothing to say
Copyright ©
Terry Flood
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