for all the woe that I’ve wrung
and flushed away down the drain
so smiling silence has sung
of the departure of pain

for all the past that I’ve passed
and have dismissed to the wind
so empty pages have massed
as motivation has thinned

for all the fights that I’ve fled
and even those that I’ve fought
so neither quill, blood, nor lead
are rarely shed, seen, or sought

for all the sorrow I’ve sung
and roaring rivers I’ve cried
so the pendulum has swung
as the last inkwells have dried

for all the wit that I’ve wrote
and then forgotten with time
so I must woefully note
that I’m too happy to rhyme