Of what use is a joyless muse?
What purpose could she serve?
Fit for naught but sardonic comedy,
too gruesome to harvest laughs,
or the chèvre’s ancient tragedy-
but what good is that?
Is life not acrid and dank enough
for muses to bitter be?
Is wormwood manuscript a balm
for exhausted humanity?
Oh where, Olympian maiden,
did all your mirth depart?
Is mortal life not pained enough
we must suffer too in art?