I wish I was not cursed with writer's block,
especially when this sonnet is soon due.
The seconds tick, the handles of the clock
are more productive than my mind of glue.
I call the muses; beg them for some light,
I plead, "Alas, for I am not a bard.
Compared to Homer, I am just a mite.
He's whippéd cream, and I, a lump of lard.
The muses turn a deaf ear to my cries
and drop-kick me outside their temple door.
As gamblers place a bet on four small dice,
I took a chance and lost, but am I poor?
Look at these 14 lines, all writ and neat,
for finally, my sonnet is complete.