he wrote

he wrote for lengthy abstinence,
he wrote for futures sought;
he wrote for future reference,
and did so without thought.

so dazzled are our common wits, to prance at rainbow suns,
and speak with narwhal and fox kits, and play with perfect puns;
but little do you know the rhyme behind a darkened sill,
to decipher such obtuse signs requires more than will.

beyond the door that locks itself, beyond the wind billowed,
a creature lurks that no-one cares for except for those that bode
well for themselves and for others, with intent pure as ice,
but, then, you see, in itself is this one's unruly vice.

because to write is not to have a creature to have read,
you'll notice it much simpler to eat loaves of garlic bread;
but -mmm- that smells so very nice, like oranges, you say?
what kind of spell is this, pray tell! that might, that would, that may?

that june and july, and august, too, and september, why not?
a writer can have writer's block, a reader can leave rot
so terrible a writing i must say can only source,
from desperation and from care, from like and from dull force;
you see, again, this is all much, too much for one so frail,
that even is a trouble for iridescent narwhale,
and silly sops, like wily wops, that care little for truth;
in fact, such arbitrary tales are vulgar and uncouth.

so, why, my man, why did he write? what did he seek to see?
i cannot tell for anything, not for the life of me!
but maybe God can shine and bless and all those fancy tries,
if one deserves to like, to lust, for -oh my, i smell french fries!-

now where was i, i've lost my thought, oh yes! of why he writes...
i cannot say, i may not know, except that wrong he rights.
but who can care? surely not you, nor reader, you or you,
i guess that's that -some ice cream here- and with that we are through!

he wrote for lengthy abstinence,

he wrote for futures sought;

he wrote for future reference,

and did so without thought.