It's time to write, said I, but nothing came,
The page was empty, void of text and tone,
I looked down at the pencil, limp and lame,
A mass of worthless wood and staidest stone.
It's time to write, said I, but nothing worked,
The page beneath me, crinkled on its fringe,
Whose empty lines and whiteness had me irked,
Its incompletion frankly made me cringe
It's time to write, begged I, but nothing stayed,
Erased so many times I could not read,
A million messy marks of words unmade,
They told me "start again" and I agreed.
A lazy writer's he who blames his tools,
But truth be told I like to bend the rules.