7 Hours Gone

7 hours gone,
1 hour remained,
Lines written…none!
I was going to go insane.

I really really wanted just one awesome poem,
One fantastic piece of rhyming verse. That’s all I’d need!
That’s all I’d need to show em,
That I was the last of a dying breed.

The last great rhyming poet,
Heir to Coleridge’s throne,
Then with every other poem I’d try to write I could blow it,
Because I’d have that one poem and that’s the only thing for which I’d be known.

Which is really all it takes,
How many Byron poems do you know?
Maybe two. And William Blake’s,
Only got one so…

I mean don’t get me wrong. Tyger! Tyger!’s great,
But really…it’s a poem about a big stripey cat,
Who skulks around and stays out late,
Forests of the night! I can do better than that!

Or at least one would hope…
I thought that all I’d need was a decent stretch of uninterrupted time,
That was my excuse. But nope,
7 hours…and all I’ve got are some funny but totally unpublishable rhymes.

She sits three rows in front,
I want to stick my dick inside her cunt!

Yeah I don't think that's a keeper...