I can't think! My poems stink!
My rhymes just stare blankly and seldomly blink.
My writing is crabby, my citing is flabby
My verses were cursed by my three year old tabby.
"Not feeling inspired?" my doctor inquired,
"Maybe your muse feels abused and retired?"
"Here are some pills, they're crunchy and pink.
Take two at bedtime with plenty of drink!
By morning your musings will bandage their bruising.
Your rhymes will be chiming and bouncing and cruising!"
"He's a real pro." I thoughtfully thinked.
Munching on meds I then said, "All right pink,
let's cure my write crisis and restock my ink!"
As late evening crept, I slept and I dreamed.
I saw my muse trembling under a tree.
She looked rather stressed, her hair was a mess
her clothes were all tattered and not even pressed.
I felt some compassion and knelt on one knee.
"Muse!" I compelled, "Please, why did you flee?
My work has no passion and lacks joie de vie!"
She paused in mid-sob, then grabbing my ears:
"Please make it stop!" as her ey