Sometimes I think my muse is drunk
Whispering naught but noise and junk.
Sometimes I think my muse is wise
Whispering truths, dispelling lies.
There's days I hear a line or three
And all the rest is left to me.
Then there's days she's not around
She's taken a holiday and can't be found.
She'll disappear when it's light
Then wake me late at night.
I wake up and get to work
Before she vanishes in the murk.
The hours she keeps are her own
The mind of my muse is unknown.
But in the end the work is done
And she lets me think I have won.