Whilst I sit and idly muse
my vacant mind can freely choose
the subject of my poem next
but nothing comes, I'm totally vexed
The fact I write is testament,
that pen on paper was my intent.
The fact the subject does not appear
I simply find a little queer
To write of nothing and so in rhyme
is indeed poetic crime
The bigger sin's the mental void,
as if my brain's is unemployed
So I've sat and strained a mental squint
and nothing came worthy of print
I'm going to break this mind contraint
drink absinthe then go and paint
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