Wednesday, March 25, 2009


When first I settle down to write
I know not where I'm going
Though fickle muse does every night
Just set the words a flowing

Sometimes I'm silly, rarely sad
Sometimes I write of love
Sometimes I get a story bad
And slap the muse above

I like to think I'm brilliant,
With fresh, unended tales
I think I've got a million;
The muse, she never fails

Now you may think this just a
Silly poem 'bout the muse
But see if in these simple lines
There's something you can use

I have no choice in this, you see,
The muse, she does dictate,
And in her fickle hand is ME,
Her willing empty slate.


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