The bard feels all sung out
As the world around him sleeps
He is the only one left
In the right sense of mind
Who doesn't feel strung out

So he sets to write a merry tune
'pon his lute so fine
For come the morning
When the people awake
An old tune just won't shine

He tries and tries
Till the **** does crow
But sadly sunrise comes

The women start to knead their dough
To cook their breakfast buns

And the poor old Bard
In this moment did find
Of songs he wrote not a single one
And he now is out of time

I
Keats I can feel your pain deep below
Poetry is slowly killing me, Oh the flow
Help me find the musical glow
It’s up to her music’s poetry to save me
Or is it all in my mind?
Or is it to unkind?
I could do better than that-ignoring her-
II
I relax in my poetic space for awhile
Looking at this page of doubt
Fixating my mind in spheres
The glorious sound of music’s hell
She screams in bed while I play her shell
I think about all of her leers and fears-
III
******* her makes me move
Playing the lute, or should I say electricity
I only found out she only knew
I’m only there for her new-news
Irresistible love games and screws
She’s trying my luck- It’s time to leave-