SECOND VERSE IV...

TO HIS MUSE

The sad fact is you cannot choose
The person who becomes your muse.
Your muse may be petite or big,
A shrinking violet, goat, or pig,
Or, God forbid, both pig and goat,
Or goateed devil—you must dote
On every jot and tittle of
This most unlikely thing you love.
And inspiration’s like a fart—
A sudden blast, but from the heart.
.