Monday, September 12, 2016


James Harrington, I hear, had a rough muse
She'd come to him late at night, drunk,
Her clothes torn from a fight she'd picked
With a sailor twice her size and kick Harrington
Until he’d throw off the covers and leave his bed.
He’d stumble about, lighting a candle,
Sharpening a quill, spilling ink on his nightshirt,
While she stood muttering to herself or shouting
"Haste, laggard! I’ve a bonzer poem for you!"
Many a time, when he was finally set to write
He'd find her collapsed on his bed, snorting,
Thrashing, choked on tears and laughter,
And then she’d sleep the clock around.
He left her at last for the sedate goddess
Of lengthy works of political economy.

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