Without a thought, without a care,
I go through life as though a dare,
Had goaded me to this point.
A new poem, I must anoint.
That nagging thought on Saturday morn,
That a new poem must be born.
Suddenly, thoughts race through my head,
If I don't come up with a poem, I am dead.
What will my adoring reading public think?
When all seven or eight of them come to drink.
From the pool of my ideas,
Only to find me lacking.
Slacking, loafing, no good, not hot.
Without a clue, without thought.
To avoid being naught, I give it all I've got,
And drop another poem in the slot.
Without a thought.
Copyright 2001 © Ronald W. Hull