I’m afraid my muse is too musical

And has a propensity for rhyme

It prefers lyrical to metrical…

Until it runs out of time.


It’s apt to use a wordplay

And a pun is within its scope

But don’t ask for iambic pentameter

It really cannot cope.


Its quite well-versed in stanzas

And prone to prefer a quip

It can’t resist a juste mot

Won’t let an opportunity slip.


Sometimes its feet are feeble

like a tipsy man stumbling around

And some of its flashy metaphors

Seem to come from the lost and found.


Its alliteration alights a lot

And its sonorous sounds abound

But it needs some onomatapoeia

To impress other poets around.


Oh where is the inspiration

That moved the Bard and his kin

I’m stuck with a Nash Rambler

Babbling about pelicans again.


It turns our rap’s over-rated

And free verse doesn’t come cheap

And when I see what’s  created

Their muse must have been half asleep.


If your quatrain won’t leave the station

Then it should be ignored

Despite all its huffing and puffing

It’s muse isn’t on………bored!


It turns out there are sadder things

Than bland words from tongue or pen

It’s muses who aren’t amusing

And commit all those literary sins.


If you have to ask what a muse meant

It’s like asking the point of a trope

Obviously that poet’s oblivious

Or he’s come to the end of his rope.


For Chris at Christmas  12/22/ 10




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