We languish when our lines are lean.
(You poet pals know what I mean.)
Our pen, sometimes, outright refuses
to trace the touch of tender Muses.
We suffer when we force our rhyme.
You’d think we’d carried out a crime!
like Chamberlain, that crass appeaser
or Brutus, boldly stabbing Caesar!
We worry when our verse won’t glow,
and poet’s passion will not flow.
(John Keats said poems should flow freely,
like streams, sun’s rays or blood, ideally.)
We freak out when our stanzas stink
of stagnant sweat or icky ink.
Like trafficker, with skunk to smuggle,
a rhymester’s life’s a sodding struggle!