The Potty Poet

Upon the computer keyboard, With QWERTY squashed about, The poet slept and soon he snored, Four-thirty... tired out... And there he dreamt he was awake And typing poems still, As if he didn't need a break Or tiny sleeping pill... But God was keen to calm him down, Excited as he was And gently eased away each frown For he was loved because The poet had a heart of gold, Although his eyes were red, Yet didn't do what he'd been told And simply go to bed... God sighed at such a silly man, His whole life left to live, As if God didn't have a plan, More poems still to give... Impatience is a tragic mask That blinds the weary soul, Such that the poet didn't ask The Lord to take control... So pace yourselves, don't be like him, Take one day at a time... Don't be obsessed, filled to the brim With poetry and rhyme... Sleep brings a boost, a needed lift, As if to grease the wheels, Sleep is a precious holy gift, A sacred rest that heals... Let eyes stay closed, let dreams unfold, Let lessons still be learned, Let fantasy at last take hold Till daylight has returned... The potty poet gave his all, He'll sleep ten hours or more... Regardless, poets, great or small, That's what our beds are for... Denis Martindale, copyright, February 2012.