Ted perches on his musing bench
Soft country sounds, a gentle breeze
Should stir imagination;
But not today, he's sad to say,
For reasons he knows not.
Try as he might, ideas take flight.
Blank sheets are all he's got.
It's quite a shock, this writer's block.
He fears he'll have to stay
Until, for better
Or for worse,
A post for May takes form in verse.
Maybe he'll write of sounds he hears
Or colours in his sights,
A plethora of sheens of green,
Bright reds, and pinks and whites.
Yet, scratch his head, poor Merry Ted
Comes up against a wall.
Despite deep thought, he's near distraught
That nothing rhymes with orange!