Bingo Was His Name-O

Bingo Was His Name-O

In shadows deep, where darkness grips his soul,

Resides poor Bingo, plagued by writer's block.

His muse has fled, leaving an empty scroll,

Leaving his words to wither, die, and mock.

No remedy he finds to cure his plight,

His pen, once swift, now rests in idle hand.

He seeks in vain, his verses lost in night,

His thoughts entangled, blank as desert sand.

One moonlit eve, his heart in depths of woe,

Bingo decides to end his tale of strife.

He climbs the tree, where sorrows cease to grow,

And bids farewell to laughter, joy, and life.

But as he falls, a twist of fate's cruel sting,

Inspiration awakens, as birds sing.