A sad and lonely wordsmith, sat down to write one day
He wrote an O and then he puffed upon his pipe of clay
He wrote an N and then he puffed, upon his pipe some more
He sat and toiled for quite some time, as hail beat down the door.

The hours passed and he laboured on, bereft of inspiration
Day passed to night, his pencil a sword, under candle and moonlight
His eyes grew weary, his head did fall, onto the table hard
His pencil it was broken into two quite separate halves

Time to end his labour now, for ‘twas end of the line
He mopped his brow, gazed out once more, to see the stars so bright
Looking down to his writing pad, he cast a wry old smile
His accomplishment on this sad old day read ‘Once upon a time’

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