I’m feeling blue, bogged down, bemired.
My eyes are sore, my brain is tired
Did those old scribes that I’ve admired
Feel as I do, just, uninspired?

Searching for some inspiration,
I pass the local fire station.
Of course! A caution to the nation.
“Do not report false conflagration.”

But I found some verse Belloc had made,
Of Matilda and the Fire Brigade.
She falsely called them to her aid,
Then with her life Matilda paid.

So then through countryside I strode.
Down twisting lane and winding road.
I know! I’ll write a witty ode.
Of the rolling road to my abode.

But Chesterton, yes old GK,
Of reeling roads had made his play,
Amusing all who heard him say,
That Bannockburn was Brighton way.

Then, as I strolled down by the quay.
A seaman old called out to me.
He told me of the time that he,
Was left alone upon the sea.

Of how an albatross he shot.
He drank the water all he’d got.
And on the decks so dry and hot,
The dead-men crew began to rot.

Oh! Who’d accept this old man’s tales?
Of pious bird and dewy sails,
And water snakes or slimy snails.
My search for inspiration fails.