Each
morn the poet sits him down
Filled with poetic fire;
His
heart aflow, his soul aglow
To twang upon his lyre.
No
matter what the weather be
He always feels the pang;
So
every morn, sad or forlorn,
He sits himself to twang.
Sometimes
his muse won’t work at all,
He cannot sound his lyre;
His
heart aflow or soul aglow
Responds not to his fire.
And
then he feels him very sad,
For hunger joins his ire;
And
with a blow that boxers know
He smites his rusty lyre.
He
worships truth as best of all,
But truth won’t flow at times;
‘Tis
then he quibs and works some fibs
Into his soulful rhymes.
Compose
he must, to stay the wolf,
And feed next winter’s fire,
And
so he smites the strings and writes,
And makes himself a liar.
July
27, ‘09
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