Monday night and not a damn thing to say,
the toll’s been paid but the bill holds sway.
Behind on my payments since that cheerful day,
when the Piper arrived in much disarray.
Angered by debts he no longer could pay,
threatened did he, to turn me so gay.
Not that what you think but the happy buffet,
no longer depressed would I be dismayed.
No choice did I have, no chance of disobey,
too great was the cost of his rosy bouquet.
So I played and I played every night and day,
till the flowers burned grey like the ash of Pompeii.
Wilted petals folded inward as if to pray,
no longer would misery invite to stay.
So bankrupt no more the Piper did play,
the tune Writer’s Block, an old cliche.