My muse is like a golden car as we traverse
the astral realms of poesy riding sunlit beams
We briefly pause, my view becomes immersed
In dreams aglow with starry lyric streams
We fly and reach the place of poetic fountains
Where Shelley, Byron, and Millay and Yeats
Begot their noble paeans and epic mountains
Beguiling all with magic verse and beats
The muse adjures our steeds within her fane
Amid roiling springs of thought we soar
Our chimeral horses near the gurge of fame
She points and says \"anathema evermore\"
While flying through the mental ether
We must decide on fame, on art, or neither