Haven't you got any work to do?

I can't be bothered
writing dreadful poetry at the minute
Finding lines that rhyme's
like searching for the love-song of the linnet

I'm growing weary
throwing moulding breadcrumbs to my muse
and curling up my toes
to put myself in other people's shoes

I think it's time
to take whatever comes into my head
and leave the ink to fade
on yellowing fragments underneath the bed