WAITING ON THE MUSE

WAITING ON THE MUSE

Waiting on the Muse to come and hit me on the head.
Waiting for the Muse to come and kick me out of bed.
I am not the least confused on the thing that I should do.
I am one of the lucky ones, one of the privileged few.
Who roll in the lap of luxury, comforted by his Muse.

I pick up with flair my poison pen and know at once just what to write,
My wit is there at my command with a condescending bite,
And I cut the wise guys down to size with my quill pen and my ink,
And still have time to drink some wine and spare a thought to think.

Anyway the wind blows is all the same to me,
I blame not age or the wage I’m paid on lack of productivity.
I burn so hot just like a rocket, I up and blow my fuse,
But I take it all with a grain of salt,
A dry spell cannot be my fault, I blame it on the Muse.

Writing is as much a science as it is an art,
And sometimes I can be stupid when others think I’m smart.
Genius is part inspiration, part perspiration too.
I guess I’m wired to be inspired, I’m seldom left without a clue.
And I like to think I know my way around a rhyme or two,
But it’s never me, oh, no siree, it’s really just my Muse.

Sometimes the Muse is sneaky, sometimes crafty too.
It can flatter and beguile just like a clever child.
Sometimes it can throw a fit in the middle of the candy aisle.
But I am never at a loss, I can show the Muse who’s boss.
And if I cook a perfect dish, this culinary wordsmith,
All the words I think I choose are predetermined by the Muse.

Waiting on the Muse to come and strike me with his cane,
A crotchety ‘ole ne’er do well with only himself to blame.
The Muse will leave me high and dry, his servant I will gladly die.
When is not for me to choose, it’s in the hands of the mighty Muse.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED