Poam One Hundred and Twenty-Three.

So this is my new Poem: One Hundred and Twenty-Three,

And I'm short of a theme as the Reader will see,

For my Muse has gone AWOL,  took off in the Night;

So there's plenty of Dirge in the words that I write.

It's sunny outside with a little light wind,

So I'll put that in words for this Poem to begin.

What is that Man doing, next to that Tree?

Is there plenty of Milk for when making my Tea?

That Door needs some paint, it's looking it's age,

Put a mark in my Book so I won't lose my place.

Did Washington's teeth ever get 'Dry-Rot?

And I thought Betty Rubble was really quite HOT!

Oh! Damn that daft Muse , I'm just babbling away,

Writing all kinds of Mush just for something to say.

Never claimed to be : Shelly, Byron   et al ,

But I've read better lines on a Old Toilet Wall.

That girl will be carousing with Eight other girls,

Some Greek Bar on Olympus where Male Strippers unfurl,

Her job is right here for inspiring this Poem;

Not hanging with Apollo in his grand lofty home.

It just better be good, her ready excuse,

For writing alone there's never much use.

AHH!  Here she comes now with a jaunt through the gate,

As if 'Butter Wouldn't Melt' , Unruffled, Sedate.

But the nearer she walks to my Pleasant little Home;

I'm getting Ideas for a completely new Poem.

Now there she is standing, in frame by the door;

And I'm already beginning Poem One Twenty-Four.