The Writer's Retreat

The rain comes down about me as
I sit here on my stool.
The people rushing quickly by
Must think of me a fool.

All soaking wet I sit here
Inventing lines of prose,
While mud hurled from the car tires
Makes ruin of my clothes.

But on I sit,
And sit I must.
Unless of course,
I start to rust.

For inspiration's struck me
And I'm rather on a roll.