sleepwriting

Today I didn’t write a word.

I hadn’t slept, ‘twas quite absurd.

Tonight a Nytol I shall swallow.

I hope I sleep before tomorrow.

If to the office I could creep

And do some writing in my sleep,

A plot of lost cats I’d pursue –

A La Recherche de Tom Perdu.

Or p’rhaps I’d try to raise a laugh

And write an epic ‘bout a caff.

Chef stabs his rival in the knees.

I think I’ll call it War And Peas.

Still in a trance, I’d boldly try

To write about a youthful spy

And as to bed I tiredly totter,

I pen the title, Harry Plotter.