I Am Not

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                          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.