This wasn’t going to be easy, not by a long shot
Of late she’d taken to the drink, found herself to be getting terribly lazy
Still able to write but her memory oh so hazy
Slumped at the bar, favourite jar in hand
She’d need to soak up an altogether more enlightening trend
Around the right time along came a friend, sober with traces of a hangover
Remembered just how good she could be, her out an out ability when it came to the written word
As soon as she saw her dressed in rags she figured her to be rather absurd, all too willing to lean over and lend her a constructive line
What she said was this, “A fine, fine writer, your fans are awaiting your comeback”
She knew this wasn’t going to be easy, with drink on board she never knew how to think straight
If this wordsmith didn’t sort it out she’d be late for her own all too important deadline
To pen the perfect poem, make it read sublime
And she had to get things right this time or her fans would fall by the wayside, ignore her particular craft
Slide on out of her life, consider her to be rather daft
Truth told, all she had to say was this, “I’m only beginning to find my voice, so I know it, I know I’ve yet to have my day”

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