Erato sat in a corner of the Tardis scowling at her notebook. It was maddening. She could grant inspiration to mortals, but not to herself; she was as subject to writer's block as the most frustrated adolescent poet attempting to capture their fleeting desires.
But she had promised the happy couple a poem and was determined to deliver. The last two lines of the sonnet were there, pulsing in her brain, but how to get to them? It was proving impossible. Perhaps she should abandon this form and attempt another of those limerick things instead. Or a villanelle? Those two lines might work as a villanelle..."Lord Apollo have mercy," she muttered in ancient Greek as she scribbled and erased and scribbled some more.