I worked on my comedy for twelve hours
For today was the last day to write it
Been working hard, using all of my powers
But rushing like this only leads to shit
Still, opportunities are rare, admit
It would be nice if the Beeb liked my script
My wrists are aching, my back too, a bit
My eyes are probably red, my brain has flipped
Running on empty now, the last drop’s dripped
After this sonnet, none of my prowess
Will be left; into dreams I need to flit
To recover the brainpower that has dipped
Not packed yet for tomorrow’s trip that steers
Me Newcastle way. I might wear a suit!
Sun 8 Mar 2009
No comments:
Post a Comment