ON BEING A POET

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