I cannot think of anything to say

Today. And so I write this little verse

To keep my thread alive. I will not pay

The price of starting over, and no terse,

Or cute rhymes will cheapen this strange attempt

To produce sonnets every single day.

By writing this, I risk poets’ contempt

At my feeble, uninspired words. Oy vey,

I’ve managed to write fourteen lines that rhyme

Abe, be a bee. Si? Dee? See D-E-F?

E, Ef. Gee, Ji. Embarrassed now that I’m

Wasting my readers’ time. So I’ll go chef

The lunch at Bijou’s place, where I’m no clod

With pots and pans, but rather, I’m a God.