Writer's Block

Oh pity the poor poet sat here upon the loo,
I need to write a poem, what is a boy to do?
I'm mentally constipated, I have the writer's block,
And there's a party in my hallway and the bloody door won't lock.

Do I write about the daffodils or the babbling of the brook,
Or about my skinflint landlord who's most certainly a crook,
The tale of the weary ploughman crossing homeward o'er the lea,
Or Cynthia from Tesco's hurrying home to make the tea?

But wait, I feel a motion, there's a word upon the page,
Oh no, I'm in the spotlight, and I'm here at centre stage,
I've written down, "dear antelope," I'm sure that must be deep,
But nothing else goes on the page after that initial sweep.

I could write about my girlfriend, the awfully timid Lark,
Who undresses in a Wendy house in deepest midnight dark,
But the snow white sheet looks back at me, I generate no verse,
So I must think up another song or go into reverse.

I'll lament about that massacre that happened down my street,
But my hands refuse to work at all, I'll have to use my feet,
But nothing works, I am dispond, I cannot write some poesy,
So I'll sit upon this toilet seat until the world turns rosy,
With my feet against the bathroom door to emulate a lock,
So have pity for the poet sitting here with writer's block.

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