She Stands in Beauty like a beloved dream,
The way all grace must surely seem,
And to Stay my all, with a fleeting look,
And has a face like Daffy Duck.
Just a minute that can\'t be right,
It\'s not the way I\'ve meant this Plight;
This Poem has taken a wicked turn,
It\'s not the way my Heart would yearn.
My Muse has gone and so I babble,
Up an Infamous Creek without a Paddle.
This really is the final straw,
For a Muse is what a Love Poems for.
Well ; She\'s had her Chips and needn\'t come back,
To leave me writing like a Second Rate Hack,
I\'ll Ring the \'Agency\' for another Muse ,
One totally Loyal and will not abuse.
I need a Girl that\'s Stationed by,
To help through doubt and much Rely.
Now they\'ve mentioned one, though a little Cheap,
But hopefully Gems of Prose I\'ll reap,
A Muse where flowered Verse was born,
And then her Spirit this Poem adorn.
But what is this they\'ve sent my way,
A \'Unionised\' Muse with Terms to lay:
Hour Long Breaks and \'Work to Rule\',
Weekends off and the Festive Yule.
Three Weeks Holiday, Twice a year,
Expenses payed by Muggings here.
Did Byron or Keats have such distress;
A Miss \'Leon Trotsky\' in a Frilly dress.
How can I write of a Heart laid bare,
If it\'s \' Clocking-Off time, and She\'s not there.
So please be Patient with this Sluggish flow,
Of finished Poems I\'d hope to show,
But it\'s come to this that when I write;
I live in fear of a Muse \'On Strike\'.
Oh- Wayward Girl that left me so,
You weren\'t so bad now this I know,
Please return and grace my Mind,
With glittered Pearls to fill my Rhythm,
Stay with me when Verse begin-
And never Sing a \'Soap- Box\' Hymn.