White Canvas

Write Can Worse

The canvas stands before me
White as driven snow
And what I'm going to do with it
I'll be jiggered if I know.

Maybe I'll leave it pristine
It might like being clean
Maybe I'll come back tomorrow
To put brush to my joy or sorrow

The muse it eludes me now
I don't know who, why, what or how
There's no thought, idea or dream
No giggle, sigh, whistle or scream

I must bring out what's deep within
Gosh, that sounds gross just now
Do you mean my lunch or din-din?
Let's change the subject anyhow.

Did you notice that a-b-c-b
and a-a-b-b are both before you?
Did that make you wonder if
The poet's craft is true?

You hadn't even thought of it
Till I brought it up
The rhyme-scheme, buddy NOT
My lunch or my sup.

Gosh, I'm in a gross mood
And I just cannot paint
I think I'd better say goodbye
Before you swoon or faint!