When you see me reaching down,

With a needful talon in clear distress,

Today my talents seem faint, so impotent,

From my beak croaks a mournful sound.

 

In the garden you'll find this raven,

With plumage black and blue,

I do confess, in all seriousness,

My mind becomes laden, so very craven,

Which begins the cycle of depravity,

As is the way of insecurity.

 

Lo, my magic wanes!

I cannot write or draw today,

Imagine my disdain when I say that my troubles will not go away.

Leave me be, don't look at me,

But isolation brings no serenity,

How can I achieve my conjurations,

When my sickly mind favors pity over resolutions?

 

To the cabinet, back again,

It's time to stave this ghastly trend,

Something to grant these feathers a handsome hue,

It's time to hear the coffee brew!

 

I take my time when I prepare my roast,

Its bold, its dark, a spicy finish does it boast.

Mr. Poe in wailing glee will rise up from the grave,

To praise and laud the tour de force that coffee helped create.

 

Once I'm set and caffeinated,

I'll be brazen, bold, so activated;

A poet's soul cleared of complication,

Now a bastion of inspiration!

 

So stalwart now my address to muses, 

Their good wishes did they bade,

Other ravens will resume to write me,

To say they relish what I've made.

 

Well, the lesson here is to not despair whenever you're feeling low,

Just fold your wings and with those claws clutch a cup of joe.

Then you will sketch just like the greats, a bona fide Renaissance bird,

Expert of the illustration and a master of the written word!