When the well of creation begins to run dry,
Do writers sit in a corner and cry?
Do they open a bottle, smoke one more cigar
Or hasten down to prop up the bar?
No, we take up the duster, the Hoover, the broom,
And systematically clean every room.
For the housework's forgotten when the writing is BIG,
We leave cobwebs hanging – we don't give a fig.
We could even forget what each meal time's about
If it wasn't for stomachs giving out a great shout.
But if housework or gardens don't do the trick
We tear out our hair, beat ourselves with a stick.
We return to the day job, or go on a hike
To encourage the old inspiration to strike.
At the end of each day we hatch up a scheme
Whereby all the answers appear in a dream,
But when all's said and done and our guard is well down
A spark can emerge while we're walking round town.
Don't know where it comes from, but help can appear
When you least expect it – pass me one more beer.
I'm feeling a little like this at present, but know if I persevere it will pass!