Poet’s Bane
Insomnia visited that night,
Leaving the poet in a state of strain.
His intentions once pure and bright,
Became a dark and sinister bane.
Waspish words and lame apologies,
May make intentions plain misery …
Vitiating dust that just maim ideologies,
Becoming no more than vain sophistry.
Butchery he contemplated in his soul …
Alkaline poison seemed so inviting!
No bright flowers or loving sweet roles …
In that early morning spat of writing.
Sweat poured down his plucked droll brows,
As he tried to construct exciting rhyme.
(T’would have been better to try to control cows,
Than straining all that exacting time.)
Then his muse diffused with thoughts of vibrations,
Had a chimney falling under the weight of Santa!
He sat back – looking at the morning creations,
Threw down his pen shouting – then ate a ripe banana.
