A bit of a lark

A bit of a lark

I tried to write
It wouldn't come out
Onto the paper
I flailed about

I wrote it in pencil
I wrote it in pen
The words wouldn't come
I set fire to the den

I wrote on the walls
I wrote on the dog
But all I could of  think of
Was a bloody great fog

I talked to my wife
About all that was life
It only upset her
And got me in strife

I went back to the bookwork
But the words wouldn't flow
Kicked the cat in frustration
And broke my big toe

I rang up my mate
For advise and a yak
He said seriously Bud
Your a washed up old hack

Now I couldn't except this
Writing defeat
So I put on some tunes
An inspirational beat

But it didn't help
I fell off my chair
Impaling my arse
With an Indian spare

So in closing a warning
About writing the prose
It's a dangerous pastime
You could blow off your nose
                    R P Edwards