HM At The Keyboard

I think this was snow day 19. Gotta admit, I'm losing track.
That should make Tuesday #20.

This extended winter is really taking a toll on my creativity. What am I supposed to write about when I'm trapped in the Mansion all day? There are only so many towers of soup, chicken-bread-eating, banana-peel-recliner-stuffing, toenail-filled-cranberry-candle incidents to share with you. It's times like this that make me nostalgic for the days of bathroom ceiling vent fan bloody mice trapping mishaps. Even a piece of lumber duct-taped to Nellie's horns would be appreciated. Oh, for the companionship of my cafeteria lunch table cohorts!

Snow and ice are everywhere...but my writing has run dry.


HM at the Keyboard

"The outlook was not brilliant for our dear HM," they say.
The score stood at 18 and 2, with yet another snowed-out day.
When Farmer H went off to work, and Pony played his game,
A sickly silence fell upon the readers when they came.

A straggling few clicked right on past, sighed in deep despair.
Others clung to a slim hope: noises in the basement lair.
They thought, "If only our HM could take a crack at that...
She might be able to once more pull a rabbit from her hat!"

Her hat bereft of lagomorphs, HM was rendered mute.
Somewhere in this ol' blogland, the stories, they are cute...
And somewhere folks are laughing, spirits soaring high...
But there's no joy in Hillmomba, where HM has run dry.