Pen in hand,
Sit, not stand,
Look at screen,
Player slammed,

Football match,
Boring patch,
Dodgy ref,
Heads are scratched.

Trying to rhyme,
It's not a crime,
But cliches found
Are, all the time.

A day has passed,
Went quite fast,
Spent it sleeping,
Housemates aghast.

Stuff I see
Written down will be.
A dangerous affliction,
This writing spree.

But unless I'll anon round the bend,
Or the rest of my time in asylum spend,
I think I'll cold turkey my addiction,
I think I'll bring this poem to an end.