"Musings of the Poet Bug"
Heed, young bard, so swift of pen,
thy flower days are fleeting.
You, though once the Muses' friend,
will find your powers receding.
Frolic while you have your day
of phrases wrought with cunning.
Night is near, so make thy hay,
the clock, alas, is running.
Time was, I was cogent,
and my satire laced with acid.
Now, I’m just im-potent,
and my barb is rendered flaccid.
Once my literary gift
brought kudos from congratulants,
Readers claim they now are miffed,
by my "poetic flatulence."
I was once a wunderkind,
prolific, just like you.
Now a frikking week I spend
to write a lame haiku.
Run and ask your fathers how
my rimes were all the rage,
No-one ever bothers now,
to read this ancient sage.
All the critics changed their minds,
no more was I the best.
How it pains when first you find,
your status "reassessed".
I, who was so lauded, then,
for deftness with a poem,
Now live unapplauded in
the Poets’ Nursing Home.
Every day I take a crack
to write a line or two.
Every night, they roll me back
with urine in my shoe.
Look no more upon me now,
so loathsome and appalling.
Ply me not with pity, how
the mighty so have fallen.
Heed, young bard, so swift of pen,
thy flower days are fleeting!
You, though once the Muses' friend,
will find your powers receding.
Frolic while you have your day
of phrases wrought with cunning.
Night is near, so make thy hay,
the clock, alas, is running.
[This message has been edited by Lightning Bug (edited April 08, 2004).]
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