By Michael Mallows

I've never known the awful shock
When words or rhythms just won't flow!
I've heard, of course that writer's block
Can make you stop or very slow!

It's bound to happen, I suppose
To low and mighty, bright and dull,
To those who rhyme or scribble prose
In Dallas, London, Leeds or Hull.

The cogs get clogged the thoughts are dire,
The brain won't function as of yore.
The words won't come, you're not inspired,
The mood is heavy, blighted, bored.

The pencils sharpened in their rows
The rituals just don't seem to work
You're keen as mustard, Heaven knows,
It's not as if you want to shirk!

Still, nothing happens, not a jot.
No inspiration thaws you out
You're cold as ice, you should be hot!
Nada, nothing, niente, nowt!

I guess I'll go and feed the cat,
Make another pot of tea.
Sort the papers, lay them flat,
Start again? No, have a pee!

Ah, that's better, Now I'll settle
But maybe just ten minutes telly?
A well-earned break, put on the kettle,
Prepare a snack to fill my belly.

I hear the kids, John, Jane and Marcus,
They'll want to eat, and ask where Tom is.
Tomorrow, though, I'll be more focused,
Organised to keep my promise.

Just as I promised yesterday;
I will not fritter time away!
I've NEVER suffered writer's block,
I'm just distracted by the clock!