Farewell to Corrupted Endeavor

 

 

O creaky muse whom once I sought

and now with rust is caked,

please tell me that my wad's not shot

or if it is, that I have got

another one fit to knock you up.

 

I'm sorry I haven't made time to write.

I'm really very quite contrite.

I probably deserve your spite.

You're likely well within your right

to tell me to go fly a kite.

 

When I was young, I knew it all:

I'd go to school and have a ball

and write like Yeats on a crazy cannonball

 

but the intricacies I once pulled out of my hat

have turned to lint,

and the beauties I described

now seem to me proscribed.

 

O muse, I'll get out the WD-40.

I'd rather have you complaining than be silent;

there, you can move your jaw now,

there, an elbow; there, an arm.

I free and release you with this charm.

Your feet can dance, may I dance with you?

You can bawl me out when we are

through.

 

© 1995 Gregor Everitt