Writer's Poetic Block

My brain was fuzzy, nothing clear. So I stuck the nozzle to my ear. The Hoover sucked and I blew my nose But what came out was merely prose, Not a line that I could use To offer to my starving Muse. Just garbled thoughts, some quite obscene. Fit only for a magazine Which gents may glance at while alone Or sitting by the telephone Discussing with a Lady fair Her body parts, allegedly quite bare. But how does one indeed unlock That infamy, the Writer's block. I beg you now, I'm on my knees For your suggestions, please!