No rhyme, no rhythm, no reason;
No song for a special season;
No cause against which to rage;
Just wandering words down the page.
Unsteady hand on uneven line,
Tired body gives way to dull mind.

Insane irony of this process
Where much gives way to far less;
Where inspiration only conspires,
Ventures out during forgetful fires,
To leave me scavenging in cinders
Of would-be masterpieces and wonders.