Calliope Lost

Under her magic, honeyed words poured forth filling his fervent verse with rhyme and wit for suitors to woo and doxies commit to carnal indulgence and thus henceforth as topmost poetaster of the north his purse was filled with gold and silver bit. But at autumn's end, away he would split to rest in warm climes until May the fourth. Then an El Nino year, when she stayed south his verse thickened, treacle in climate's scold his sharp pen, now dull, only rent the page full of awkward phrases, crude and uncouth his once bright parlance now tattered and old as her light shifted to another stage.