I sit in my garret, I twiddle a thumb;
I drain the last dregs of my tea.
I gaze through a window, over the hill
as far as the eye can see;
but no inspiration will come from the Muse
to help with a poem – from me.

I browse through a bookcase, shelf after shelf,
I thumb though a volume or three;
I reach for my Chambers, Thesaurus too,
I even search down on a knee;
but no one will guide me, no one at all,
to help with a poem – from me.

My failure’s emphatic, my failure’s complete,
as plain as a failure can be.
With trawls through the papers, internet too,
I’ve even considered a fee;
if only some person will lend me a hand
and help with a poem – from me.

And you write so well, so naturally too,
a style both flowing and free;
Oh how I envy your neat turn of phrase,
which highlights your true pedigree.
But me?  I just sit here, yearning to write
a little love poem – from me.



~