It’s the end of the week,
We’ve nothing to do,
At work time passes slower,
So we pick up the pen,
Just to start over again,
We prey for an inspiration shower.

But all we get is a stutter,
The knife has hit ice not butter,
But the message was on the tip of your tongue!
So you force the pen to flow,
So what rhymes with… I dun know!
“Barefoot on nettles you’re stung!” (eh?)

This morning in the car it was there,
Now I’m here, pen in hand, it’s not fair,
Those poetic lines now forgotten.
From the sunshine of the idea,
To the dark mists of despair
Your new work of art has already rotten.

You have everything at your disposal,
To thrash out a new novel,
Woven from those memories hidden,
But it’s inspiration constipation,
Nothing but bloody frustration,
And other words censured and forbidden!

So you have been sat there for ages,
Just staring at unforgiving blank pages,
You plea for the inspiration to return,
But now you are getting angry,
As the office fills up and is so noisy,
Looks like you will never be Jules Verne!