My muse, a sullen, bearded dwarf
Flips me the bird when I call his name
And laughs when I dare to raise my pen
To play at length the poet's game,
To forge new life from Wagner operas
And strewn vignettes of D&D,
And bits of existential backwash;
Oh stubborn muse, thou torment'st me!
Yet, once in a while, when I'm locked
Within some timely random thought
This devil taps me on my shoulder
And so my starting theme is caught.
Then begins my fearful brawl
With diction and oft-times with rhyme,
A struggle which consumes the soul
(And precious hours of my time!)
And cliches rear their ugly heads;
Recycled thoughts invade in force
As lame feet march in grim procession
Till shod and set to better course.
But when swift Nothung lies reforged
How bright and true its shimmery sheen!
And so I toast the impish smith
Whose hidden treasures I did glean.
George Chadderdon © 1993