In patient lines, in plastic boxes,
All the things that I've collected,
Await the Great Design's fulfilment,
Await some reason for their being:
Faith in my creative instinct,
Insatient wish for recognition,
Waiting for my hand to give them,
Colour, shape, a little wisdom,
High Communion, benediction.
In dusty loft, the Great Creator,
Blows the cobwebs off His hobby,
Wonders what to make of mankind,
Wonders why He even bothered:
Loses faith in His creation,
Sees it all a misconception,
Scatters bricks in each direction,
Vows He'll stick to crossword puzzles,
And leave creation to the others...
Seeks relief from constant boredom,
Sees my struggle to deliver,
Could give me the easy answer,
Show me how to solve the problem,
Knows the key to my enigma,
Put an end to writing drivel,
Build my life and write the novel:
But no one helped Him with His first draft,
.......... He'll let me stew,
Work out my own craft!