For want of a Muse, I will imagine
There’s a madman standing by,
Whose shotgun he is pointing at my head.
He says if I don’t now knock out a poem
He will fire, and I’ll be dead.
Hold it right there, dear Mister Madman,
Keep that firearm aimed at me
Let it be the reason I’m attempting poetry-Not
for love or money, nor as a bid for fame,
It’s just to keep him happy, playing his mad game.
Look it’s working, kindly lunatic!
Twelve lines already, span and spick.
Who would need a Muse, when a shotgun’s just as quick
In getting you to dish out line on rhyming line?
Yes, the thought of being shot at, seems to work just fine.
And no matter that it’s nonsense. Seeing he is mad,
Its lacking sense or reason won’t make him one bit sad.
So let this be a lesson to all attempting verse:
If you lack all inspiration, think of a loony at your side
Who says if you don‘t write a poem, this is the day you died.