There is a secret hideaway, idyllic, out of reach
of poets, where our muses congregate.
They gather on the golf course, in the bar, and on the beach,
with drink in hand to gripe and remonstrate:
“Our poets all expect us to be there to hold their hands
and whisper in their ears some sparkling rhyme
with but a moment’s notice; there’s not one who understands
how hard this is to do time after time.
So is it any wonder then, we get fed up, down tools,
come here, unwind, and get things off our chest?
It’s fun to watch our poets from afar; the clueless fools
can’t seem to use the brains with which they’re blessed.
They gnash their teeth, despair, and make a God-almighty fuss;
but leaving them’s the only way to make them think of us.”
© 2022 Glen Scott