Its at moments like this I truly feel beat
Locked deep in despair as I flee in retreat
To cast all my cares 'gainst the wall with a slam
For try as I may I can't write worth a damn.

No novel or sonnet will pass from my lips
No prose, nor ode, nor witticistic quips
Not a line of plot nor a scrap of verse
As I protest my misfortune in a manner most terse

My grammar is lacking, my rhythm most weak
And my vocabulary flees me, I can't utter a squeak
As I hammer out stanzas wrapped in a funk
Which produces a product one could only call junk

My pen now lies silent, my ink turned to crust
My paper and notebooks lie gathering dust
I cannot write, not a another word
Composition so coarse should not be heard

The hours are spent and the evening grows late,
You have a schedule to keep and I shant make you wait,
So as I close up my desk, and put out the light
I draw closed the curtains, and bid you goodnight.