It seemed as though my verse had gone;
I hadn’t rhymed in far too long
He took my words and killed them, see;
And then, there was no poetry.
No stanzas came, no stories nor;
All victim to my saboteur
My words no longer coursed through blood;
For what is poetry, sans love?
Of pen and ink: my paper broke;
Of diction: nary a word was spoke.