Musings
by cricketjeff on June 30, 2008. © Jeff Green, All rights reserved
The poet sat alone by night
And tried to ease his mind
But when he took up pen to write
What subjects could he find?
He thought that love would be a start
With sadness buried deep
Some jealousy to take a part?
His muse though stayed asleep
Perhaps a ballad from the West
Where cowboys rode the range
And outlaw chase to add some zest
About the muse, no change.
“Philosophy! Ah yes that’s it
I’ll write the end of god!”
His muse was tempted, not one bit
And answered “Silly sod”
A vampire write, so cold and dark
Where blood is spilled from veins
The answer from his muse still stark
“These thought just cause me pains”
A work of nature, bees and flowers
The English countryside
His muse said “sorry, gone for hours,
I’m off out for a ride”
A nonsense verse, like Edward Lear,
A Jabberwock, or three
His muse just answered with a sneer
“That really isn’t me!”
Free verse or rhyme or concrete form –
He could not make it work.
His muse withstood the wildest storm
And just sat down to shirk.
He turned to drink, then left for bed,
Befuddled and confused.
This silly rhyme flowed from his head
His muse at last amused!
English