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