In Rio, as the sun was sinking,
The Muses sat; they
had been drinking
All that day, and
through this folly
Some were mad and
some were jolly
Some prey to loathed
melancholy.
Fair Thalia sat and
sadly wept
For debts unpaid and
vows unkept
And floors that go
for years unswept
By love-struck
youths with brooms inept.
While Thalia’s tears
like diamonds glistened
Clio spoke, of fates
unchristened
Wise, though drunk,
and no one listened.
The handsome
barman’s young and thin
A kiss Melpomene
blows to him;
Erato smiles into
her gin
But while her drink
she seeks to nurse
A hand has crept
into her purse
She sees and mutters
something terse
An Attic prayer, or
else a curse.
“Polhymnia, you
thieving crone
With no attribute of
your own
Leave my credit
cards alone!
I never trusted you,
so calm
As if you were
yourself a psalm.”
Euterpe sleeps, and
in her dream
Calliope is run by
steam,
In a world of blows
and bruises
Where each man bets
and each man loses
With very little
room for Muses.
She wakes and pokes
Terpsichore
“Oh say my dream
through ivory
Came falsely now to
trouble me
Into my mind so
slyly creeping!”
Her sister nods, and
goes on sleeping.
The stars come out,
and for their trouble
Urania squints and
sees them double.
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