I dare not tell my muse again,
“oh love, you are my inspiration,”
for fear that my sly muse might gain
advantage of the situation.
The last time I did this,
my muse refused to do the dishes,
and how I wished I’d shushed my lips
but was too late for wishes.
My muse collapsed and sighed,
“I’ll sit so you can feel inspired.”
To which I replied, “Get up,
go clean, my pen I have retired.”
So now I write when everyone is sleeping
but stop if I hear my muse creeping.