I started the poetry machine
and what a scene
She kicked up quick with a start
The pen it flew,
the brain it knew,
and the words were warming in its heart
But then I heard a "hiss," a "pop,"
the first heard of its kind
"She's usually tuned so fine," I shrugged,
"however will I rhyme?"
She seized up on me,
just quite right upon the spot
a cloud of hope up in smoke,
and one concluding "plop."
A part that had been safely secured,
had spun off of the side
My shoulders sunk below my heart,
the big machine had died
The rhythm and pattern
rolled off the end of my desk
spilled onto my shoe, the floor, a goo,
"Look at all this mess!"
I spent some time breathing
in the devastation at the scene
"Alone without my poems" I thought
"Whatever would this mean?"
Anyways, the wreckage site was all messed up,
my words were scattered throughout the place
a broken cup, a bruise, a cut,
I had ink smears halfway across my face
"Oh pitiful world," I spat!
"Oh sorrowful me," I cried.
Whatever does this mean?" I plead.
"Without my poems I'll die."
"Shall I never poem
ever again?
Is this the great and terrible end?"
And then, just then
the answer sprang to me
"Oh it's not broken, I just need a new pen."
and what a scene
She kicked up quick with a start
The pen it flew,
the brain it knew,
and the words were warming in its heart
But then I heard a "hiss," a "pop,"
the first heard of its kind
"She's usually tuned so fine," I shrugged,
"however will I rhyme?"
She seized up on me,
just quite right upon the spot
a cloud of hope up in smoke,
and one concluding "plop."
A part that had been safely secured,
had spun off of the side
My shoulders sunk below my heart,
the big machine had died
The rhythm and pattern
rolled off the end of my desk
spilled onto my shoe, the floor, a goo,
"Look at all this mess!"
I spent some time breathing
in the devastation at the scene
"Alone without my poems" I thought
"Whatever would this mean?"
Anyways, the wreckage site was all messed up,
my words were scattered throughout the place
a broken cup, a bruise, a cut,
I had ink smears halfway across my face
"Oh pitiful world," I spat!
"Oh sorrowful me," I cried.
Whatever does this mean?" I plead.
"Without my poems I'll die."
"Shall I never poem
ever again?
Is this the great and terrible end?"
And then, just then
the answer sprang to me
"Oh it's not broken, I just need a new pen."