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.