Alright,

Let me recite my plight.

I'll be forthright—

It may sound trite, but it's night.

There's no light,

Despite Ben Franklin's kite.

The power's out tonight,

So I must write by candlelight.

In spite of decent eyesight,

The room is not quite sufficiently bright.

And this candlestick's height

Isn't putting up much of a fight.

Getting uptight, I sit upright,

And reach for another candlestick to my right.

As I light, it ignites.

My nerves excite.

My heart takes fright.

I discover outright my oversight:

That wasn't a candlestick, alright—

But a stick of dynamite!

Now it's burning hot white.

My odds of survival are tight.

But I have a tremendous appetite,

And this cake on my desk looks outta-sight—

Gotta eat it before I expedite my flight.

No time to be polite—

I devour it all in one huge bite.

Boom! Like I'm hit by a meteorite.

The entire house is alight.

I feel contrite as my thoughts reunite,

Gaining this critical insight:

'Tis better to write in the dim of night,

By humble candlelight,

Than to have to rewrite

By the firelight

Of a mistaken stick of dynamite.