My rhyming steam roller sometimes hits a boulder
and topples down into a gulch.
With wheel to the shoulder, I sit and grow older.
Sometimes brain fodder turns to mulch.
An idea will goad, get me back on the road,
get my eyes on the unbroken line.
I can drive fifty-five while my thoughts come alive,
and it’s those times I really feel fine.
But there’s other times, though, where I do call a tow,
unable to rise from the mire.
Those times, I feel mean. I could drink gasoline,
but in past it has failed to inspire.
Recocking the brain is so often a strain that at times
it feels better off empty.
A night off with beer or some holiday cheer
can oftentimes be pretty tempty.
Then comes the steam roller, all puffing out smoke,
and the frontal lobe suddenly fills.
And out comes a cloud of rhyme, prose and bad jokes,
enough to give thinking men chills.