The dogs are quiet
The washing machine groans My girl naps and snores And I am calling on the muse
Who seems peevish That I should be tapping A poem out with one hand Without benefit of ink.
Oh for the days, she sighs, When poets sharpened a quill And sat pensively in candlelight And courted me properly.
I apologize for the twenty first Century, I say. We are an impatient People who sharpen damned little Who rely on spell correct to keep
Ourselves honest, often with comic Results. Well, she sighs, if you must, Come a little closer. Kissed by the muse I sharpen my heart and listen.
The washing machine groans My girl naps and snores And I am calling on the muse
Who seems peevish That I should be tapping A poem out with one hand Without benefit of ink.
Oh for the days, she sighs, When poets sharpened a quill And sat pensively in candlelight And courted me properly.
I apologize for the twenty first Century, I say. We are an impatient People who sharpen damned little Who rely on spell correct to keep
Ourselves honest, often with comic Results. Well, she sighs, if you must, Come a little closer. Kissed by the muse I sharpen my heart and listen.
