Much have I suffered from poetic block,
Abandoned by my muse, my mind as blank
As were the pages, while my spirits sank
And all I did was watch the crawling clock.
While others beat me at the writing game
I tore my hair, went on producing nought,
Until I found and very swiftly bought
This book, and with it inspiration came.
Then felt I as a laureate must feel
When words and rhythm join in verses, cast
In lines that swiftly flow to ends that chime,
And all combine in poems that look real.
My sonnets can be colourful at last
For even orange does not lack a rhyme.