Why does Homer’s Muse disdain me?
Why won’t nymphs touch my flute?
When heroes sail the wine-dark sea
why do I stay home and salute?
When will I know love from lust?
Why do both turn my brain to peat?
Why are lies the only words I trust?
Why is mud the only pie I eat?
My muse is a mouse in a cage
who refuses to obey my command
and when I touch the cold, chaste page
it slaps the dry pen from my hand.
Wicked muse, eat your stale cheese
but breath your stench on another fake,
allow my feeble tongue to unfreeze
for I’ve forms to fill and calls to make
and I’m near the end of my coffee break.
Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Pungent Sound Journal of Pulp Poetry 
Très amusant
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Thanks very much.
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Absolutely love this.
Gwen.
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Thanks very much, Gwen.
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Oh poet, your woes are bland and cheap –
‘cos Muses sleep when mortals weep.
Maybe your verse would flow with ease
if you just asked the mouse – politely – please.
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Haha. Yes, thanks, Josie, I’ll give that a try.
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You have a knack for breaking me up immediately. I was undone from “flute” forward. Thank you for this priceless poetasting.
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yep, still laughing over that line — brilliant : )
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Thanks very much, Stacey.
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Thanks, JMN. I appreciate it.
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Life is hard with a 9 to 5; Poetry struggles to stay alive.
Keep the faith, this verse hits home!
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Thanks, Liz.
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Brilliant. I hope the nymphs come to their senses.
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Hope springs eternal.
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There is clearly a heartfelt yearning for more deep and meaningful verses. It would be a wizard idea for Pungent Sound to invite its devoted creative readership to contribute short Poetry Platforms that make bold smelly statements about what they think good verse is and can do and should be etc.
I have written such a thing myself and i think people could really benefit from it as it cuts through like burnt toast sweating with oil and tar.
I would love to see other poets such as your good selves sharing your heartfelt articles of faith.
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