A Writer’s Prayer
Now I sit me down to
write,
I pray thee Lord, to keep
it tight.
If my wretched muse
should find a clue,
Please give me focus to
see it through.
For her contributions
are few and sparse,
I think she’s mostly
drunk off her arse.
She staggers in from
nightlong bouts,
hiccups, burps, then
passes out.
Then in her drunken
slumber blows,
random fragments of turgid
prose,
most of which offends
the nose,
and came from where God
only knows.
Yet I search in hope
through that noxious vapor,
for something decent I
might put to paper.
For without her I shall
surely fall,
and she seldom
remembers to come in at all.
Thus I stare at an
empty screen,
while she snores and
mumbles things obscene.
Then she stretches, yawns,
and starts to grouch,
while hunting for loose
change within the couch.
Then it’s up and off to
parts unknown,
leaving me to type and
groan.
I pound the keyboard with dour abuse,
wishing the wench had a little more
use.
But though she is a hopeless blot,
the sad truth is, she’s
all I’ve got.
So despite the fact her help is slight,
I pray thee God, she returns tonight.
D. Nathan Hilliard
