I feel as if my mind has just struck gold.
(If you'll excuse that tired metaphor)
My mind is tired, and my fingers cold,
It seems that these conditions let me soar.
You see, I wrote a poem with great haste,
The words, they came to me with little thought.
To not write more would surely be a waste,
This state of clarity is what I've sought.
I'm clearly on a roll, and that is why
This sonnet must be finished rather soon.
Before my well of inspiration dries
And I am left a chattering buffoon.
I can't sustain this poem-writing trend.
It seems my knack for words is at its end.