The mill is under sea. It grinds out salt.
Politics love and death are always new.
I always have a subject – poems to do.
I sometimes think that I should call a halt
And send the Muse away. But she drops round.
Chocolates and flowers. And if those fail tears.
She left me flat for oh so many years
Sometimes I wish she’d throw me on the ground
And call me whore because I did not wait
started to see her sisters. Ten large books.
She doesn’t moan or give them dirty looks
Just brings a sonnet every time we date.
Perhaps they’re fairy gold that turns to dust
I can’t believe their worth and yet I must