He esconces himself with paper and pen,
anticipates flowing like a river of zen
but the end is blunt, so he starts once again
Time ticks on, it’s been more than a while
A stanza or two, and neither worthwhile
Prosaic and turgid, such is his style
Imag'ry effective as an alchemist's vial
So he sits and he stares at the paper defiled
with meaningless words that fail to beguile
Then he realises he's got nothing to say
No wisdom, no love, no pain today
So one last time he tries to try
to write laments for days gone by
But nothing stirs, his eyes still dry
Then merc'fully, his pen doth die
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