The First Annual Marla Garla Song and Poetry Contest

OK, so here's the deal:

I have writer's block.

My friend Scott Who I Love tells me that it's because I'm happy right now, and that could very well be true, but it doesn't address the problem. The bloglem. See? This is what I come up with. I should be ashamed of myself. So it doesn't address the problem of the fact that I seem to be relying heavily on filling this site with random photographs because words and ideas escape me. But I'm happy, so at least I'm not overwrought about it. I'm all, "Words? Who needs 'em! Lalalalallala pretty bird!" And at least my writer's block isn't as debilitating as Dan Brown's — poor Dan Brown, who is shouldering the blame for his entire publishing imprint going kaput because he hasn't produced another Da Vinci Code for Doubleday. Pressure.

So here's what we're gonna do.

When I was in Boston at the beginning of November visiting The Nephew, I had a tendency to sing to him. I sang to him a lot. I sang to him nonstop, I danced and sang to him. I sang this song when I was changing his diaper:

This is what we do
When you make a poo
We clean up your bits
And we clean up your butt
And now you're good as new

I sang this song when he got fussy:

There's no need
To be so sad
You've got a great mom
And you've got a great dad

But because I have writer's block, that's all I could come up with. No second verses, nary another stanza. Stephanie tried to build on the poo song and write one about pee, and it had potential and some clever rhyme patterns, but we just couldn't get it, you know?

Now it's your turn. You don't have to write about poop, you don't have to soothe the savage infant soul, you don't have to rhyme. Just see what you can come up with on any topic you choose, lyrics or poetry, haiku or tofu, and I'll send the one that cracks my shit up the most a prize. So easy! And I don't have to write! Fancy that! And if you do want to write a song for The Nephew, who is exceptional in every way, that would indeed be awesome.

Here, I'll start you off with haiku, my favorite form:

Isn't the blogger
supposed to do the writing?
This chick sucks my ass.