The Ecphorizer

Once upon a midday rainy,
Hand unsteady, eyes all grainy,
Sat I writing verse ungainly,
So cerebral, such a bore.

Seeking inspiration's flashes,
Scrawling letters in mad dashes,
Covered pages with my slashes,
Recording stanzas by the score.

Creating scintillating poems,
Had me riffling antique tomes,
Thesauri edited by gnomes
Long ago in days of yore.

Thus I spent my precious time,
Looking for those words sublime,
Calling muses for a rhyme
With syllables of six or more.

But synaptic circuits scrambled,
Saturated by my brambled
Lucubrations that now rambled:
"Promethean intellect's a chore."

So now I pen prosaic prose;
With mundane phrases I have chose
To bring this nonsense to a close,
And keep it so for evermore.