My Elusive Muse Trixie

Trixie has disappeared, tired of writing mushroom poems I guess. Come out, I say. I cannot pen missives without her, I confess. She has left me in a bind, in the dust, in a totally bereft mess. I will do whatever you want I say, casually meaning more or less. Trixie pops up long enough to suggest Coleridge, she has nerve! I am not an Old Master; Trixie is vim, sass, vigor, zing and verve! Okay, what about Poe? She says, the only thing is, he was a perve. I pussyfoot around her next suggestion as she rounds a curve. Trixie is very much in charge of what I do, write or say. She can make or break me with my words every single day. I do not know how she got the reigns of my pen so dapple gray. But she is the one I turn to if I want my words to sway. So I promise her the moon, rice krispie treats and other gooey things. She is slapping a tambourine, and deems herself one of the kings. I give her all the credit, for I have learned lessons the hardest way. And in order to write poetry I need Trixie my muse back today!