You hope that the muse gives you something to say
Something erstwhile and worthwhile and good
And if she should speak
You will write well that day
Just like a good poet should
But if she won’t speak
If she’s nothing to say
You sit and you stare at the wall
You would sacrifice a child
Or a lamb or a goat
If it would just make her call
One must avoid triteness
While aiming for brightness
And please don’t sound like the bard
The reader won’t know
You’ve ripped out your soul
And are spilling your guts by the yard
It’s not easy to be green
I’ve heard poor Kermit lament
Well I suggest he try his hand at verse
Where I know on his street
He couldn’t pay the rent
That is the poor poet’s curse
Sometimes I think I’ll get a beret
Or a scarf
To wear so gaily
But generally I wait for the muse to speak
For that is what poets do daily
