I Am Not
amused,
my Muse. You’re always having a go
at
me – when you’re around, which isn’t awf’lly
often,
y’know. My plot’s for you to sow,
but
you won’t sew your shift, let alone put lively
seed
to soil. Putting in the boot
is
more your scene than gently greening dreams
of damsels,
dragons and other such dufferish toot
some
plunging poets expect. You’re out on your beams
if
you can’t shake up at least a vision or three
linked
in layers appropriate for my age:
even
your rags are dropping in tatters, my crone-y
friend.
More, your splatter is rank on my page,
so off you trot, you untucked, dribbling
phoney;
I’m
sour enough without your spluttering rage.
