There once lived a hoary old writer
who typed away at his bench
from late in the morning till early lunch
and the rest of his time on Twitter

He wrote a terrible kinda novel
self-published as an ebook on Amazon
muttering away with his glasses on
in the bedroom of his hovel

The years slowly and sadly passed
Scarcely a reader read him
And the lack of an audience upset him
till one day he finally lost heart

‘Oh how I wish I was a literary seer!
and people devoured what I wrote
I’d go to Hay in a cashmere coat
And a golden Karmann Ghia’

A passing fairy heard his cry
and tarried awhile at the casement
She looked inside with amazement
at the woeful plight of the guy

‘I will send him a muse!’ she said out loud
to no-one in particular
raising her wand perpendicular
and vanishing in a glittering cloud

In her place leapt forth a giant dog
as wanton and hairy as a wolf
and it landed with a galumphing woof
on the writer’s disreputable rug

‘I shall name thee Stanley!’
said the man, somewhat dazed
(although why he wasn’t a lot more fazed
is scarcely credible, frankly)

Stanley was charming, funny, good-hearted
and inspired the man to write verse
which as you can see was even worse
so he was pretty well back where he started

The fairy came back when her schedule permit
straightened her tiara and said ‘Meh
Obviously there aren’t any guarantees, yeah?
Especially with writing and shit’

The fairy flew on before he knew it
I mean – usually her magic totally rocked
but sometimes you just have to accept you’re blocked
shrug and leave them to it