Oh, where is your inflammatory writ?
Your text that would incite a light, "Be lit"?
Our music deserving devotion unswerving
Cry "Do I deserve her?" with unflagging fervor
(Well, no we do not, if we cannot get over it)
But what's it mean
When suddenly we're spent?
Tell me true!
Ambition came and reared its head, and went
Far from you!
Even mollusks have weddings
Though solemn and leaden
But you dirge for the dead
And take no jam on your bread
Just a supper of salt and a waltz
Through your empty bed
And all at once it came to me
And I wrote him hunched 'till four-thirty
But that vestal light
It burns out with the night
In spite of all the time that we spend on it
On one bedraggled ghost of a sonnet!
While outside, the wild boars root
Without bending a bough underfoot
Or it breaks my heart, I don't know how they doing
So don't ask me!
And as for my inflammatory writ?
Well, I wrote it and I was not inflamed one bit
Advice from the master derailed that disaster
He said "Hand that pen over to me, poetaster!"
While across the great plains
Keening lovely & awful
Ululate the lost Great American Novels
An unlawful lot, left to stutter and freeze, floodlit
(But at least they didn't run
To their undying credit.)