On Saturdays I like to post a humorous poem. Today’s is from Witless on my web site.
The measured words of poetry
Rise round the mystic sphere,
Sift through the dirt or sing divine
In strains that soothe or sear.
But now the stanzas halt and freeze:
Eternity is stilled—
The dog looks guilty at the door
The poet’s muse is chilled.
Goodbye “the crescent in the sky
Reaping a horde of crows,”
Holding his breath, he scoops the mess.
The muse must hold her nose.