The faeries hid my pens away
And so I cannot write today.
Pixies all my pencils stole,
Hoarded them like they were gold.
And if, by chance, I found a spare
It'd do me little good I fear.
The only sharpener I own
Was smashed by dwarves upon a stone.
Should I then my finger cut
And write this poem in my own blood?
But it were useless, too, I think.
My notebook's eaten by a Sphinx,
Who left me but the metal wire.
And all the elf-lads did conspire
To tear my loose leaf, one by one,
Until their wretched work was done.
And while I flapped around the room
To save my paper from its doom,
The shine of my computer screen
Attracted the hobgoblins' greed.
They took it, plus my best keyboard.
They dragged my mouse out by its cord.
Harpies in my printer nest.
A dragon has burned down my desk.
I wish to leave but can't go far.
A giant skateboards on my car.
Burdened with these pests and blights
How can a poet hope to write?
Brownies stomp upon my head.
I think I'll read a book instead.
--April 27, 2013
Prompt: Pick a common saying and search the Internet for ideas. (I didn't like this prompt, so I didn't write it.)