The PlaywrightÂ’s Tale
Sometimes my grey matter
Gives out air and lather
And nothing of note
Besides this dire quote.
Maybe itÂ’s warming up
Perhaps IÂ’m dreaming
Of trophies and gold
Oh why am I so bold?
Could the cold velvet
Cushion my quoted words
Or would I, the West End bury
And eventually surviving on curry.
Would my creaky computer
Churn out an ocean
Or would that darn printer
Force me to hunt down a painter.
This art has given me
Notable pain
But sorrow is the song
That always makes me feel wrong.
Where is my muse?
That made me good black coffee?
Did she get lost in Bishan Park?
IÂ’ll bet its because I scream like a lark.
Yesterday I placed a flutter
Down at the local betting outlet
But blue, blue Everton
Led Arsenal to seventh heaven.
The script had bugs
I told my heckler friend
Reformat it he said
I angrily punched my mate.
And now I freeze
And soon I will sneeze
But this play that sleeps
Still makes me weep.
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Silence
I am silent.
Like a barnacle out of the water,
Like a man stuck in a rave disco
With cops around him,
Like the minute dust
Gathered on a lunar probe abandoned
Decades ago,
Like the citizen who has
Served his time
But forgotten.
Let's have more poetry to wind the night down
