It is so sad when you have no pen
For you never know when
The words will come
When they will flow, incessantly
Mercilessly, to no end
So fast and furious, the writer often becomes
Delirious
Attempting to capture, these capsules of rapture
As they fall upon her.
Growing worn and weary,
Because she has no pen
So solemn
she can get—
when circumstance does beget
such benevolence, so tragically.
Surely, fate might see
That this, malevolence would more it seem.
For to have no pen,
Does make her sick.
If only she could pull it from her head,
That would surely do the trick!
The one to save all those minnows
That would be lost
If only her memory
Was not such an albatross
She might salvage a lesson or two
From the overflowing school of them.
A mere sighting of this vision
Of this magnanimous Moby Dick
Oh, yes! That would do the trick!
What irony this ruin
As it is the whimsy process of pursuing
Songs unsung
That have her composure undone,
And have her composing
Such beastly, such heroic,
Epic poems instead.
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l.m