As leader of the writing group I set a homework task
Designed to stretch creative minds, not really much to ask
Of intellects the size of yours, the Worcester Literati.
The rivals of such eggheads as Stan Laurel and O. Hardy
I try to set a subject that will offer lots of scope
For dramatic flights of fancy, or nostalgia, or a joke
That may be funny, may be not, depending on the mood
Of those who sit in judgement on your work’s ineptitude.
But sometimes, in capricious mood, with motives quite impure,
I ask that you will bend your minds to something quite
obscure.
So I guessed that scented candles would quite likely give
you grief
And give you hours of torture as you struggled with the
brief.
Now, the problem for a smart-arse, is that one can be too
clever,
And ask for gems of literature, when he himself could never,
Not in a thousand million years, well not by Friday’s
deadline,
Come up with something readable and quite brilliantly
sublime.
I have toyed with scented candles, now, and tossed them
round my mind
I’ve lit their wicks
and sniffed their pongs but nothing can I find
To raise a laugh or squeeze a tear, so I’ve had to give it
best
And confess that being over clever has caused great mental
stress.
Not even curried candles, though they briefly flickered
brightly,
Could inspire me to the heights to which my aspirations
rightly
Soar, the Booker prize the lauded lion, these gems I’ve had to
pass.
And I’ve stuffed my scented candles up the proverbial Khyber
Pass.
That was brilliant! I really, really enjoyed it.
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