To Apollo
Fair Apollo, may I borrow your golden lyre
So I might strum a heavenly chord full of fire
Else, let me pluck a laurel from your grove
Towards greatness, ever I strove
But alas my fingers are not nimble and quick
My wire sung words sting and stick
O Apollo were I as fair as the tree
Perhaps with second sight I could see
Fair Apollo lend me a voice as sweet and rich
A harpy in church, I rasp and –*****
I’ll drown in myself if I not throw it out soon
I’m hopelessly blocked
And Half cocked at noon
Fair Apollo, may I borrow your golden lyre
So I might strum a heavenly chord full of fire
Else, take me under your bright wing
With your guidance, let this Philomel sing
Copyright © A.E. Rivenbark | Year Posted 2016
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