Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth
From Shakespeare's Sonnet 103

How oft did wadded balls of paper twirl
around the ring of Shakespeare's trash can rim?
How many foul-penned words caused him to hurl
his lunch anew? Did threats to rip off limbs
Cause Anne to peddle back in soft retreat
And leave the Bard to cry into his ale
When all his words resembled luncheon meat
Or hopped, elusive, down a bunny trail?
For every Romeo and Juliet
There must have been a clunker of a verse
For Musery, although a martinet,
Sometimes inspires doggerel or worse.
I'll take some comfort in my warpéd thoughts,
That even Big Bill's Muse tied him in knots.

April 2006