when you're sitting all night
and do nothing but write
and conclusions don't fit all your findings
you are wracked with the strain
try again and again
not to wrench each book out of its bindings
and you finally fall
through no fault at all
into a strange fugue state of dreaming
where the books which are there
take, like birds, to the air
and across your tired vision are streaming
and you reach for your pen
to begin it again
to fill in the last little notion
but you can't stay awake
and you really must take
some coffee or some stronger potion
and the words fly around
you're surrounded by sound
of their whispers and strange sussuration
until they appear
falling out of each ear
in a most dizzying operation
and you finally weep
and collapse in a heap
and wonder if you even will survive
but you get it all down
with a headache and frown
and at last! it is done and you're alive!
[apologies to Mr. W.S. Gilbert]
