A Literary Crisis

By Anonymous

There is nothing so hollow as pens,
There is nothing so gloomy as ink,
When a man is obliged to think of something,
And doesn’t know what to think.

There is nothing so blank as paper,
There is nothing so void as a brain,
When a man has an hour to think up a thought
And has thought for an hour in vain.

I know how a ghost must feel
As he tries with his fingers of air
To convey a mouthful of good beefsteak
To the mouth that isn’t there.

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