Bad bloggish my scrawlway, ghastly deadly dull song mire.
Blandness what I foment, and of it you’re sure to tire.
Runs on, this lackluster strand of words—a soggy stream.
It’s heading south; I’m churning lyrics that aren’t strong;
They’re wrong, I deem.
Sometimes I wonder ’bout this scriptural disorder;
I’m mostly a hack, just a weak-kneed-tune disgorger.

Glancing over sickly at the words from brain to pen,
All that I can tell you—I'm inane, inane again

A hack, a hack. . . .

“Putz-writ is my fiction,” muse whispers in my ear;
Turgid fare,” she’s sounding, “give it up, go have a beer.”
“Nothing doing!” I emote. Is going on, though, smart?
Neither wisdom nor amusement will my tunes impart.
Boring scribbles still I scrawl; I’m beating with my wrist
The space bar on my keyboard; I’m torn ’twixt torpid and pissed.

Glancing over shtikly at the words from brain to pen,
All that I can tell you—I'm inane, inane again.

A hack, a hack. . . .

I beat out needless tunes. . . .

Open mire? Well, crock,
Me work, schlock schlep,
Shrill rap, claptrap,
Time spend, dreck-o send,
Written poop, dung soup,
Words crude, solip[sistic] ’tude,
Wack, slack; beat lack,
Carping hack, yakety yak.

Needles tunes,
I beat out needless tunes. . . .

A hack, a hack. . . .

“Mocker, no, don’t ‘Spell’ me!
Please, please, don’t be going on.
“Fie!” They scream with mad derision.
“Bloat-long tunes, schmuck, damn! you spawn.
Go find a shtick site, lout, to scrawl where clarity is gone!”

Glancing over, thick me, at the words from brain, and then.
All that I can tell you—I'm inane, inane again.
Sending mostly hack words. . .need a trusty “nom de pen.”
Does this help me? Nah, nah,
I’m inane, inane again.