I sought the Muse out in the night,
To beg if She might spare a light
That I might see my words aright,
My inspiration had gone numb.
She said, “Who put that in your head?
I’d never waste my Sisters’ bread
On imaginations left for dead,
Is your own tongue stricken dumb?”
I answered, “Give them all your cake,
I only beg, for pity’s sake,
That as you pass, toss in your wake
One meagre mumbling crumb.”
She said, “I cannot lift your curse,
But I will grant you to rehearse
This mildly esoteric verse,
’Til you find deeper depths to plumb.”