As I was a-walking through Manchester town
I met with a poet whose head it hung down.
I asked her the reason for such a sad frown.
“It’s the quest for the NaPoWriMo.”
“Is it treasure or monster?”, I straightway inquired.
“Tis a thing you can only find when inspired,
But I’ve sought it for weeks now and I’m so damn tired
In the quest for the NaPoWriMo.”
Said I to the poet, “You’d be better off sleeping.”
“I fear that I cannot,” she replied to me, weeping
“For t’would interfere with the blog I’ve been keeping
Of the quest for the NaPoWriMo.”
It struck me to the heart to see her so teary,
Her voice all a-tremble, her posture so weary,
And in foolish haste I said “Can I help, dearie,
In your quest for the NaPoWriMo?”
I regretted my words as soon as I’d spoken
For she looked up at me with a smile that was token
And she said “Can you fix all these words that I’ve broken
In my quest for the NaPoWriMo?”
I took to my heels, I’m ashamed to admit it;
Though I’d offered my help, like a coward I quit it.
A hero’s role beckoned, but I couldn’t fit it,
That bold quest for the NaPoWriMo.
Notes: Today’s prompt was to write a ballad. And I’m soooo tired it was a struggle to write. Thus, this poem.