In Base, A Poem Displayed

Don't you hate it when a sonnet gets away from you.

I shall likely post this to the Bardic list so everyone can laugh


A fickle thing, the poet's muse must be:
Like fox he chase, and flits she through his jaws;
Like sparrow, swift and agile, far and free. . .
And calls him chase her, reach with slathered maw:
For sweet his song will be if he but bite,
And catch, and hold her deep within his gut
And as she beat her cage with all her might
The cobwebs fall and open doors, once shut
To light, to life, to dream and joy and song.
So poet bawls his bellyache, like beast
Once having swallowed brew too much, and strong.
His pen to purge the undigested feast,
And shining verse the leaving on his plate.
A tribute to the uncooked muse he ate.