Wicked Muse

I’m no good at poetry

I suck at writing verse

My sentences lack symmetry

And my stanzas? Even worse!

The words I choose don’t fit

And my vocabulary’s absurd

The rhythmic quality’s shit

And the meanings are all blurred

I wish that I could write

Something elegant and prosaic

Instead my poem’s a blight

Like a poorly done mosaic

Were I to channel the ghost

Of a Tennyson or Blake

My poetry would be host

To something spiritually awake

Alas! I have before me

Something bland, almost dead

Surely readers yearn to flee

Pull the covers up, hide in bed

I think that I shall put away

That awful prankster Muse

And from this point strive to allay

Her machinations to confuse

Rest assured, my dear reader

’Tis the last you’ll read from me…

Till that Muse (God, I need her!)

Whispers another monstrosity