Monday Poem

The Dead White Male Muses Auxiliary and Sewing Circle
by Constance Brewer


A rag tag bunch of published old authors
assembled in the far back of my head.
They pulled up chairs - I was not invited,
this is what was rumored to have been said:

"I t'ink dat every t'ird word should rhyme."

"And the committee thinks that they should not."

"I think starting again would be sublime."

"Hellfire! Why don't we jus' keep what we got?"

"Gie me clue - how shall I thee ken, why it—"

The others turned and yelped at the poor man,
"No one asked you, Robert Burns, keep quiet!"

Before I start things get way out of hand
My poems are critiqued before I've begun—
Muses. I can't get meaningful work done.




*Today's procrastination poem was brought to you by the letter "S" and the number "147"

. . . .** No muses were harmed in the making of this poem - although several came close.

. . . . . . . *** Will the owner of the renegade Robert Burns romping through my head please come claim him?

. . . . . . . . . .. .**** The white zone is for loading and unloading of metaphors only. Violators will be given beer.