Inspiration, Lack of

When the well is dry, the well is dry;
The pail rises up full of spiders and flies.
The daily oppression is solid and stark;
The matches are damp--they strike without sparks.
One worries a friend will be without friends
Once death crops his circle. What then, what then?
The books one reads, the books one writes
Pile up, complete, no end in sight.
This misery verse is a waste of time;
Each couplet ends in an imperfect rhyme,
Except for that one. Heaven help the poor poet
Who loses control, whose lines lack flow--
Witness his stumbles and misplaced pauses!
He's abandoned all the poetic lawses,
Just to prove he can still crank out
A pathetic excuse for-- (but here he blanks out.)