There once was a man named Bobby
Who was bored and needed a hobby
He sat there and pondered
He thought, and he wondered
But nothing came to him all day.

So Bobby decided to write
But none of his words came out right.
His thoughts tossed and turned
And his first drafts, he burned
Because he felt his work was trite.

Suddenly, the room filled with flames
And he knew his first drafts were to blame
He tried to escape
But he was too late
And soon he screamed with pain.

He died later on that day
And his story goes on to say
Take pride in your work
And all of its quirks
Or soon you will leave the same way.