Expectant readers of this trifle you all should know
That last week my inventive juices refused to flow.
Dry as arid desert became my creative urge,
When anxiety and despair propelled me to purge
Countless excessive lines of excretory waffle
All truth lost in a mire of convoluted twaddle.
So Sunday ended thus, with much wine and on to bed,
But surely as sleep advanced there came into my head
A topic of exquisite subtlety and splendor
Embellished all with stunning imagery to render
Themes of piercing clarity and such shining brilliance
That none could deride its radiant magnificence.
However the urge to record this prize with a pen
Was diminished by exhaustion and moreover then
I clearly anticipated its power would bind
This jewel for perpetuity unto my mind.
Though ere the night had ended it became more than plain
A fog had now enveloped my dehydrated brain.
Oh woe; for come light of day it revealed my treasure
Resisted all retrieval and was lost forever.
I had no muse to inspire me, I was left to mourn;
For insight had not been nurtured – it was here stillborn.
Alcohol once relieved creative constipation
Now the block returned to thwart my imagination.
Forfeit was a potential Kubla Khan (oh the pain)
Mine, by the way, created on much lower octane.
Although intemperance had made its artistic mark,
Restraint for my health is advised and this I will hark.
Of Chateau Cardboard only two glasses I’ll imbibe.
No poetic insights will I manage to inscribe,
For this minimum cannot, will not manage to grow
A utilizable amount of poetic glow.
Alas it becomes evident I must give up the fight;
I am a bard retired, sober all through the night.