When faced with the writer's block,
I look at my wrist clock
And it's almost time for the knock
It's the hour for the crow of the cock.
Seems I've been deserted of my luck
I can't find the keys to my muse's lock.
If the sun melts the morning dew,
And my inspiration hasn't been washed anew,
I feel bad for not paying my dues,
I feel sad for letting you down, my crew.
So I take a paper and scribble words; a few.
Because I do this for me, and I do this for you.