I squeeze the juice from my favorite words
and store it inside a decorative vial.
The contents are potent and long since stirred.

The mixture's turned foul with stench and curds,
with shame it's developed a semblance of bile,
'Cause I've squeezed the juice from my favorite words.

In the days when epiphanies simply occurred-
the privalege of picking choice cuts from the pile-
the contents were potent and hadn't been stirred.

Now I'm frozen, unable to harvest when spurred.
There's a dangerous feeling I'm losing my style-
I squeeze more juice from my favorite words.

Enough lamentation; I'll focus on her-
she's my passion, my engine, my nature, my Nile-
her contents are potent and need not be stirred.

Alas! I'm inspired, unflagging, assured.
The momentum she gives lasts me infinite miles.
I squeeze the juice from her powerful words-
the contents are potent and need not be stirred.