The very old muse isn't feeling well
But tries her best to inspire me
With ideas picked up from stoops
In downtown Brooklyn. "Ab-she,"
She mutters hoarsely, "Is a giant crocodile
Who eats souls lost between seven and eight o'clock."
She drinks some tea, closes her eyes, snorts.
"I think a love poem -- maybe an aubade.
It could start 'O my beloved, Dawn comes and,
All-reluctant, I must leave you before
A giant Egyptian crocodile eats my soul.'"
No comments:
Post a Comment