All shut up, all writ out
Try to write, it won't come out
Try again, turn about
Stretch the words, make them shout
The head is empty, nothing's there
No feelings felt, no despair
Clever quips all flown away
Muted strikes the end of day
Blood turns still to cotton
Birthing thoughts now forgotten
The new idea does not schetch
Here draw upon an empty nest
A sling of sighs with none to cast
Colors witheld from stained glass
Not to worry, nor to pity
Hemingway lives in a far off city
Shakespeare never stooped down these stair
His hand touched not the mundane fare
So what of it when wispy wind comes not
The smoke of this script is but sot
Thus contented with his lot
The pen refuses to put the jot
So silly strings need not be missed
Of nothing being wrought
When the lines all come to naught.
