You try to serve a customer 

A fucking drink

But the writers block stops 

It starts filling your mind 

To the brink

A line spews out

And you fumble for a pen

Scribble on anything 

One line turns into ten

The customers are still there 

Stood at the till

But when a poem is being born 

It’s a miracle

What will you name it?

Where’s the midwife?

People look in awe 

And dry the tears from their eyes