Words flow into my mind at night, But my stubborn eyes remain shut tight. I say I'll remember in the morning, But all disappears ere I rise, yawning. No matter that I fret and strain, The golden words have fled my brain. Next night, pen and paper on station Ready to transcribe my inspiration. Words come, I write, great idea! I toss and turn 'fore tomorrow's reveal. Alarm sounds, I leap up, stare, and blink. Blank scratches on paper, there’s no ink. Try again next night, fountain pen. Morning brings just scribbles. Stumped again. Voice recorder, that'll work, no scrabbling. Tomorrow, I listen, zombie croaks, idiot's babbling. All these years, no solution, a travesty. Nighttime genius—is it mere fantasy? Last night, dreaming, this poem I compiled. I remembered each word, but, was it worthwhile?