Why does Homer's Muse disdain me?
Why won't nymphs touch my flute?
When heroes sail the wine-dark sea
why stay at my desk and salute?
When will I know love from lust?
Why is it both cause a stomachache?
Why are lies all that I trust?
Why is drool all that I make?
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,
blow your foul breath on another fake -
allow my feeble tongue to unfreeze
because I've forms to fill, calls to make,
and I'm near the end of my coffee break.
Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Pungent Sound Journal of Pulp Poetry 