A work of art I must produce
One eye on the clock
and one on the muse
I sit here waiting
and watching time
Slip quietly by
with hardly a chime

With her she takes
my thoughts and expressions
Clears out my head
no trace of compassion

Beggared and blighted
An innocent fool
A would-be poet
stripped of her tools

I'm sure I should be grateful
for peace and quiet aplenty
but can't help being  resentful
at the cost of poetic currency