Or a traffic jam
Or word you can’t remember
It’s more of a rag, long dry
That you wring between your hands over
And over again
(Until your arms hurt)
Without one drop to show for it
You happen to be very thirsty
But all you have is sore arms
And memories
Of when that rag was dripping wet
It isn’t so much a block
As an excuse to throw your pen across the room
And go eat something fattening
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