She’s a delicate flower the poet’s muse.
She can really inspire but will always refuse
To do menial tasks or help with chores.
She will take your hand, help you find new heights
And will gladly unveil her supreme delights.
But the humbler tasks she’ll blithely ignore.
For muses won’t work nine to five you know.
They’re not always ready or ‘good to go’.
She may not deliver every day.
Too delicate in her temperament.
You can hector her but she won’t relent.
She can’t work like that. It’s not her way.
The poet’s muse is a sensitive flower.
If you treat her badly she’ll sulk and glower.
She’ll punish you, leave your head in hands
A poem a day’s not really her style.
She alas can’t inspire you all the while.
She loves to delight but not to plan.
So treat her kindly, don’t push her too hard
Respect how she’s made. The way that she’s wired.
Treat her gently, don’t let her get tired.
For a poet can’t work if he’s not inspired.