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I linger at my writing desk,
Fresh paper sits at hand;
My quill is sharp and ready,
But my mind is dull and bland.
I can’t do fiction, fact or poem --
I cannot write, or sing!
I sit here uninspired --
not the slightest spark they bring.
Where do the Plot Bunnies go for the Winter?
Are they in the cellar, or the attic, or the den?
Oh, I hate it when they do this!
They just scamper off and leave me...
So I haven’t written anything since -- can’t remember when.
I took my vorpal pen in hand,
Long time the manxome plot I sought;
But drat, the little bunnies
Will not whisper me a thought.
Perhaps the bunnies hibernate,
And nest the winter through
While I hunger for their presence --
Mini-muses parvenu!
Where do the Plot Bunnies go for the Winter?
Are they sipping sodas underneath a tropic sun?
I must sit here, empty, thoughtless,
While they’re rambling on the beaches --
Just a postcard would be nice, but I see nary even one.
Must I grovel for an audience,
Then bow and make request
To beg a plot, or anything
to write at their behest?
"Oh heartless little rodents,
You have left me all alone!
Where are you when I need you here?
Just throw a mental bone!"
Where do the Plot Bunnies go for the Winter?
My eyes are glazing over while they frolic in the south;
Oh, how pleased I’d be to see one.
I would welcome him with lettuce --
On a platter
from the oven
with an apple
in his mouth!
------
It wouldn't be right to dream, while
Forgetting to live, it seems;
Nor would it be right to dwell on life
And yet forget our dreams.
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