Creatively barren and punningly mute –
in the Theatre, a mime act is quick to rebuke.
So I sit and I think, then I scratch and I yawn –
keen for inspiration; the never-here dawn.
On occasion it strikes, but it picks such queer times –
when I’m washing or cooking or peeling a lime
for a strong G&T that I like to believe
shall contain, at the bottom, a literary dream.
I admit, quite a lazy and careless approach
to a hobby that one must always self-coach,
but the pressure! the chasm! the hopeless desire
to write something timeless that ne’er shall expire.
So I sit and I think, then I scratch and I yawn,
and my paper is naked as the day it was born.
Yet I know if I dilly or dally I’ll find
that I’ve lost any hope of a productive mind –
and this poem, this joke that I’ve etched to my page
is my stab at momentum in this hopeless age.
So I hope as I write out these final two lines,
that my work of the day will turn out just fine.