My muse must be a jokester or a ****,
who’s starving at my fluffy luscious words.
My musing is so sensitively sick
I doubt my muse has ever talked to birds.

But when my muse is gone they sing to me
and he returns to tell me what they’ve said,
but makes no sense and speaks predictably
of seasons, love, the grief for long-lost dead.

I guess my muse is old and out of touch;
for everything he says is nothing new
and where the secrets are, there aren’t much,
with him i win the hearts of just a few.

I love to blame my muse, though i’ve come short
or quickly come, his unrevised cohort.