The Muses

I call upon the muses to inspire my song

Because I sing not loud or long.

What a load of bunk that is.

The muses are long since gone

Left a world without inspiration’s song.

Or perhaps we, grown deaf to their cries,

Have killed them with out constant lies.

Now, should I call on the censor

To edit my work? He has

Edited many out of existance.

Then who?

I am left with only my own mind

To help me write this poem

I sing loudly, to drown out

The cars and people passing by.

I am a voice in the wilderness of civilization

Crying sanity to our senile society.

Does it hear? Does it care?

July 21, 1999