It rained upon the poet's head
this pain of doubt and mounting dread
that shook his mind and fed his fear
grew greater as the time drew near
To steady hands and calm his nerves
he met his task with nouns and verbs
to rid himself of fear that lurks
he grabbed a pen and set to work
Yet lacking thoughts or muse without
his blood held neither rum nor stout
both dry of mouth and bare of drug
he sought his poems inside a pub
With one swift gulp he drank his pint
and laughed with friends until the night
he stumbled home with fear flung far
and found his things upon the yard.
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