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Poem	In youth when oft my muse was dumb, My fancy nighly dead, To make my inspiration come I stood upon my head; And thus I let the blood down flow Into my cerebellum, And published every Spring or so Slim tomes in vellum. Alas! I am rheumatic now, Grey is my crown; I can no more with brooding brow Stand upside-down. I fear I might in such a pose Burst brain blood-vessel; And that would be a woeful close To my rhyme wrestle. If to write verse I must reverse I fear I'm stymied; In ink of prose I must immerse A pen de-rhymèd. No more to spank the lyric lyre Like Keats or Browning, May I inspire the Sacred Fire My Upside-downing.
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