The blank page lies before me, the hour being late.
As Inspiration is  lacking,perspiration takes its place.
My deadline approaches and I have barely writ a line.
My Muse finds this amusing and I find her most unkind

Crumpled ***** of paper mark how I spend my time.
Clearly I am no Durant behind the three point line
All I have accomplished is to waste a pad and ink
Indeed why do I bother; who cares what poets think?


Her hand upon my shoulder,  Her lips upon my cheek.
Her eyes are importuning, there is no need to speak.
She lures me from my garret; she takes me to her lair.
Her perfume- intoxicating. she has me in her snare.

I know what you are thinking; that I should be more devout.
Dedicate myself to writing, cut the "monkey business" out.
I am no fan of Lovelace now, nor was I one before
When my Lucasta calls you will not see me off to war.