Twas Tuesday and the august Chair,

Just welcoming the Writers’ Group,

Heard distant chortling, turned to stare.

A member strode in, cock-a-hoop.

 

“You know and dread the Block, my friends,

That icy chill that numbs the brain

And, paralysing thought, oft sends

The struggling writer quite insane.

 

Today, the reckoning drew nigh

And still I had nought to read out.

Each minute ticking swiftly by

Increased my panic and self doubt.

 

I took my wireless mouse in hand,

Long time elusive rhymes I sought,

Then went downstairs to make some tea

And biscuits ate, more than I ought.

 

And, as I wiped away the crumbs,

The Writer’s Block leapt from my head

Into the tin and sank its fangs

Into a Hobnob. ‘Right!’ I said.

 

Quick as a flash, slammed on the lid.

With parcel tape I stuck it down,

Then inspiration flowed and rid

My head of mush and brow of frown.”

 

The members gave a gladsome shout.

The Writer’s Block would roam no more.

Next time the august Chair called out,

“Acceptances?” there came a score.

This poem was written for a Ripon Writers' Group meeting devoted to parody.