by Donna Nevill

Created on: April 14, 2009

What a lovely, quiet day
To pen a tale of yore,
Of heroes who strove long ago
Upon a foreign shore.

As I settle comfortably
Into my place to think,
I hear an ominous dripping
From the bathroom sink.

When I stretch to grasp the wrench
I need to fix the leak,
The stool that's underneath me
Begins to loudly creak.

Down I tumble to the floor
With the broken tread,
The wretched wrench soon follows
And cracks me in the head.

As I rub the purple lump
That swells above my eye,
The phone begins to ring and ring;
I make a valiant try.

My foot catches on the rug
That's running down the hall.
The carpet jerks the table
And I watch my blue vase fall.

Amidst the broken pottery
I knew my muse had fled;
I don't think I'll be writing,
There's a mess to clean instead.

There's no time for dreaming
Of a knight in shining helm;
I am much too busy
Being overwhelmed!

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