There is nothing so hollow as pens, There is nothing so gloomy as ink, When a man is obliged to think of something, And doesn't know what to think. There is nothing so blank as paper, There is nothing so void as a brain, When a man has an hour to think up a thought And has thought for an hour in vain. I know how a ghost must feel As he tries with his fingers of air To convey a mouthful of good beefsteak To the mouth that isn't there. |