Ode on a Liger
For the Reduction of Writer's Block

The liger, pond'ring moodily—
Why can't he write?  What can it be? 
Perhaps a Snoth, upon the stair
Took his ideas (they do, beware),
Or he just needs to be inspired
Unto those heights which he desired
To reach.  It's possible today
His muse ran off on holiday. 
O, coax it back!  It must return
With words, or with ideas to burn…
But, one point—ere you reach a spire
Your brain may knot, your self perspire. 
O yes, it is a horrid plight—
That poor dear liger, made to write.