26 June 2012
'What's wrong with you, gurny gob?' The fair young thing inquired Sitting there beside me, Beautiful, simply attired. Golden hair cascading Down her poker straight back, Big hazel eyes searching With tiny pupils black Like a shinier version of me, Exactly who she was. Sat so proper on the edge of my bed Leaving room for pause. 'Who're you calling gurny gob?' I retort, sulky, grey, Fiddling with my notebook and pen As I have done most the day. 'Well there's no-one else here is there, To call gurny gob today? So you I guess, gurny gob To you that's what I'll say.' I harrumph like a three year old While her melodious laugh rings out, Filling the room with birdsong From out her beautiful mouth. 'So what's wrong with you, gurny gob? Why the long face? It's like you've got a Lurgan spade In your little head's place.' 'That's exactly the problem you see,' I sigh back to this lovely young lass. 'My little brain has left me, Inspiration's fled at long long last. I knew it'd happen sometime, It'd happen soon enough, But there's no magic left in there, It's like it's all been used up. I wake up and can think of nothing, I go to sleep and feel the same And during the day I chase ideas Like a cat and mouse game. But nothing seems to be coming, No genius springing forth, No eureka, no light bulb. I've been told to use The Force But what the heck is that? It's just a stupid movie line! I can't think of anything to give out, Can't spread any words of mine. I don't know what's gotten into me, I've usually some story to tell But I've found I'm now left brainless. My glorious writer's well Has run dry all of a sudden, I can hear the pennies hit the bottom Of that once over flowing pit Full of adventures and love and Autumn And all his dastardly deeds And crazy folks and ghosts And broken hearts and clockwork hearts And turnips and murderous hosts. They've all fled my cranium, All fled from my fingertips, And now there's nothing left of use, No artistry to spring from my lips.' A single tear slid down my cheek Which she promptly wiped away Then got up, dusting down herself And chuckled, oh so gay. 'My dear, I'm what your looking for. Your inspiration lost, Your muse, the inner beauty That you held, then promptly tossed. I'm right hear in front of you If you only care to find And catch me if you can. No woman left behind.'
©Delilah
Gurny Gob • Opuss № I