I was going to write a sad poem
But my nephew shot himself
So I'll guess I'll wait 'til later
And I put it on the shelf

I finally took it down today
But before I started to write
I got a call from a friend of mine
His daughter died last night

So on the shelf it went once more
To wait 'til grief has passed
Again I took the paper down
To write my sorrow at last

But as my muse began to cry
A knock came at my door
A neighbor came to me in tears
Her husband killed in the war

I never wrote that sad poem
It sits upon the shelf
Sadness needs no poet at all
It somehow writes itself