Block

One night I stayed up writing poems
To try and make ends meet,
But who would buy this awful stuff,
I thought, as they were all about feet.

So I tried my hand at a different topic,
One with greater mass appeal.
My efforts soon floundered on the rocks.
Each subsequent verse was about veal.

"This is hopeless I cursed but tried once more,
Alas it was in vain.
4 hours more sat at my desk
And nothing but thoughts on drains.

In despair I looked for inspiration,
A writer to guide me out my vex.
A copy of Miller fell into my hands,
"That's better, it's all about sex.

Thus inspired I grasped my eager nib,
And dipped it in the glistening pot,
Ink flowed freely across my page¦.
It's easier to write about grot.