And I wrote the Heavens,
And wrote havens for the Heavenly
Til all the bright buds wilted,
Milk no longer flowed,
And now my muse left me for
Some dude in Canada.

     Oh siren mourning over the mist,
    That I was a bird of prey
     And was taken by your claw!
    How silly of me to sing the Nightingale's
     Transformation in the verses
    I lost myself to you,
     And in comes a chance of change
    You roll over to the next guy
     With a Daily!

Oh Muse,
The masterful strokes gone,
This arrogant upstart would write
You the last sonnet of air
That you might breathe your echoes
Upon my words,
Bequeath me the inspired harmonic
Yielding the poetical mastery to my paper!

   Oh muse,
   You old hag!
   I'm left with crooning
   Your ungiven name!