My Muse is not a fiery thing at all,
She's languid bordering on serpentine,
She drapes herself on divans, and while sprawled:
She keeps a running playlist of Al Green.
She's quite convinced that she's actually French,
And smokes too many long Spanish cigars,
Till I get headaches from the sticky stench,
And trying to translate her "c'est dommage"
When I complain that I have no ideas,
Whilst she just puffs and tries on evening gowns,
And shrugs one shoulder, just to make it clear
She's barely unconcerned with all my frowns.
So to her expertise I must defer,
And write a new quatorze all about her.
She's languid bordering on serpentine,
She drapes herself on divans, and while sprawled:
She keeps a running playlist of Al Green.
She's quite convinced that she's actually French,
And smokes too many long Spanish cigars,
Till I get headaches from the sticky stench,
And trying to translate her "c'est dommage"
When I complain that I have no ideas,
Whilst she just puffs and tries on evening gowns,
And shrugs one shoulder, just to make it clear
She's barely unconcerned with all my frowns.
So to her expertise I must defer,
And write a new quatorze all about her.
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