Letters To Dead Poets; Chapter 1: To Homer and Mark Twain

What muse comes fourth and in what form and creed? I must admit, I am touched in the head and my insides barren and sore So shall today's seed be sown or shall its fruit be harvest? Shall this dry barren desert once again become an oasis a wellspring of infinite divine inspiration? or today shall you be fickle and elusive? Fraught with hazard and demanding payment? Perhaps a self-immolation, or a broken heart? or mayhaps just one of my arms shall suffice? My fellow poets rejoice! Oh what gifts they bring, insanity and more! Chariots of plagues and stinging maladies of mind Poets rejoice for the thunder of pain is upon us! The muses loving embrace brings forth whisperings of agonies The grandest heights of sublime joy! And the quiet murmuring of our own unending sorrows The time is ripe for harvest, but pluck with care! For tonight's dreams are fraught with hazards they bring tidings of irresistible magics an odyssey into the grandest of divine palaces and a view into the most nightmarish of hells destinations of a sort to make the sanest men go mad- and all this for just the low low price of your humble friend here's sanity Though they may yet regret bargaining for the sanity of a man who possesses none!