How slowly turn the thoughts inside my head,

Searching for sentences that are not dead.

How difficult to find the looked for word,

Without descending into the absurd.

How hard it is to make a simple rhyme,

Yet poets do this nearly all the time.

Iambic phrases slip out easily,

But making sense is much too hard for me.

I reach for feelings, - but my thoughts are numb:

No passion, only cliché and humdrum.

What great themes shall I sing of? What lament?

My metres are prosaic; decadent.

I wait in silence to consult my muse;

Then switch on, in despair, the evening news.