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Some days there is a slowness in my mind,
A dreadful lack of pace that ticks and tocks
As if my wheels were mounted up on blocks
To spin and spin and spin and spin and grind,
When I am certain I will never find
A way to clear my mental vapor locks,
Or reinstate the cushion of my shocks,
For every thought's a bump that shakes me blind.
Those days my metaphors are similes
Mistaken in my non-functioning brain,
And all my puns cause even me such pain
I fear my wordplay is a mere disease.
But when those days are finished, I can run
Smoothly when I'm tired as I pun.