MUSINGS
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