Erato in Errata
I promise to myself "It's just a poem."
With every line my pen ascends the stage.
My madness- buried, lurking under loam-
Begins to rip and claw out of the page.
And in this passion- wild and unfettered-
A curse is given me while I'm unlettered.
Oh, look! Brave Homer gallops across the stage!
And Ovid, measured, march' across his foes,
And Shakespeare's little songs hold up an age
And Edgar Allan Poe holds up its woes
And my weak hand- it shrivels up in fright
And yet the muse demands of me: "You, write!"
Lord Tennyson's a friend's friend after death
And Kipling's strength from India's jungle strides.
There's Coleridge- talking till he's out of breath
While Elliot sneaks cats in on the sides
Meanwhile my pen dries up in utter shame,
And yet my muse commands of me: "Again!"
The curse consumes my caution _ _ _
My heroes names are known, their works are not.
