My stock of rhymes is about exausted
My poets dictionary I have losted
My ideas are gone, My brain is dead
There's a perminent vacancy in my head


In all my life I never have wrote
A poem much longer than a short note
To make up even the simplest rhyme
Seems to take me a long time


For writing poems my mind is blank
For every verse I have Longfellow to thank
If you searched the world around
I'm sure no worse poet than me could be found


I sit chewing my pen with a vacant stare
I search my brain but no verse is there
I gaze at my paper till the lines are blurred
By this time Shakesheare would be rounding third


I try awfly hard but no ideas come
I test a couple but they are all dumb
My poem hangs fire as I begin to doze
I think I'd better stick to prose


I wonder if Poe ever went through this
A poets life must be far from bliss
I'm pretty good at eating and sleeping I think
But as a poet, confidentially, I need a drink


The hour grows late but still I seem
To be completly off the beam
My mind is still entirely at sea
I see you where my paper should be


I wonder how Longfellow went about it
Now theres a boy who could really spout it
Everything I write seems to be wrong
It must be tough to write a song


So I hope you won't think it awfully rude
But I just can't seem to get in the mood
Now don't get mad and start to rant
I'd love to write a poem but you see I can't


I sit here rambling on and on
By now I thought you'd be long gone
I'm tryig to think of things to say and do
Trying to find a way to say I love you.

Of course you do........