Why is it when a funny ode I do wish to write,
My pen is struck with, some awful kind of blight,
No cunning words spill on to my pad,
Somedays I pull my hair and feel as if I'm mad,
For others words flow and chuckles do ensue,
For me the words come out and often sound like pooh,
Someday maybe I'll write a poem worthy of a snicker,
Until then, I guess, with my funnybone I'll bicker.