An itch I've got, and that's no rot, I don't know what to do.
I fume and fuss, and even cuss, I'm really in a stew.

T.V.'s a bore, need I say more? You know how it can be.
I take a book, and give a look, - it doesn't interest me.

Create I must, or I will bust, I've something to express.
What shall I do? I'm asking you, my feelings do oppress.

A drink of wine is very fine, and somewhat numbs the brain.
Go on, get gassed, it will not last, and then begins the pain.

But don't be blind - just clear the mind, and do something worthwhile.
Go turn that itch into something rich, some words to make folks smile.

It's really true - if this you do, the itch will fade and go.
I have to smile, for in a while, an itchier itch will show.

But I love that itch (now ain't that rich) for it signals just one thing.
I must sit down, and with a frown, pour out my words in a string.

But do my words, have wings like birds, or are they dead and cold?
I really long, to sing a song, of verse you will behold.

The itch has passed, (now that was fast), so I'll put away my pen.
And if I may, I'd like to say, "au revoir" till - when?

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