Pirate's Block

Pirate's block, what a fell and fallow curse, my imagination in a hearse buried in the cemetery of rhyme suffocates one shovelful at a time. Is being unproductive a high crime? We all deal with this accursed malady as I drown in ink my quill's agony then I stare at the yellow parchment raw and dig up old love letters from my drawer. Maybe I should give Queen Mary a call? But I have a unique method to break the uninspired feelings that I fake, I simply kidnap someone else's sprawl as I gut words from their poetic drawl. Perhaps I should give John Dryden a call? There are other methods that I entail, rum helps to lubricate my tongue tied squeal or I can engage in some winsome play swinging my sword and simply rant away exactly as I am doing today!