The figs in the yard are ripe and forever falling,
the moon has waxed many times and now it is waning,
the cigarettes are stale with a stench of an ogre’s tale
And I can hear my blog feebly calling.
Time is torn and is twisted around the clock,
a thinking head is shut shop lock, barrel and stock,
my mind is mostly idle or it bolts without a bridle,
Oh Lord deliver me from this proverbial block.