My Muse
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My muse has left me, gone to Timbuktu
I'm left here all alone; what can I do?
There is no thought; there is no single rhyme
Can't chase her down, I'd melt in such a clime
Can't wish her back, she's quit her job she said
for never could she get me out of bed
Nor could she get me out of shower quick
The thoughts she'd breathe would disappear real quick
And then to top it off, when I did write
The other poets scoffed, "This write's not right!
Your writing's so old school; it's so mundane
Your muse must have a peanut for a brain!"
The inspiration's gone, and here I am
Without my muse, for she's gone on the lamb...
Eileen Manassian
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2016
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