Until that year I was hale and hearty,
Living my life without care.
It was after I’d been to an opening party,
Of a book. A stylish affair.
The room was filled with literate types,
Refined, well read and quite arty.
It’s not I desire to take a swipe,
But I found them to be quite farty.
It wasn’t until I went home to my house,
I found that something had changed.
I went straight to my lap top and clicked on the mouse,
And started to write. Page after page.
I’d caught a disease. it’s called Writer’s Cramp.
For years and years I was ill.
I’d sit until dark, then turn on the lamp.
‘Till I found me a cure. A pill!
A chemist I know had figured it out,
And into a bottle he put
Ten pills, he said were for gout,
But they cured me and not just my foot.
I found I could leave it or take
An idea, a prompt or a rhyme.
I could stop, or cheerfully partake.
It was great. I had time.
Time for myself to do as I please,
Not forced to write everyday.
I was no longer a slave to the keys,
Now I can sleep till midday.
So all you sufferers out there,
If you want to give them a try,
Just call me, they work, of that I can swear,
I promise. Would I tell you a lie?