Purse
Again, with Pen poised over paper, He sits to deliver Verse. Like a pregnant woman, Now in pain, Now stifling a Curse. Words fall about him Haphazard and Terse. Now he perms, Now he slashes, then, Confines them to the Hearse. For it just isn’t so He can’t get a go, Hanging there high-strung, He’s left for the Worse. His child cries for Her mother, Who’s left him for another. He knows not how he’ll Feed her, He knows not how he’ll Nurse. His landlord stands Taller, His debts aren’t getting Any smaller. Yet, he waits In vain, over paper, To catch the eluding Verse. He waits Like a man in haste Now expectant, Now mouthing a Curse. (Sigh!) Poetry my man, springs From honest thought, Spontaneously begot. It cannot be Curried together, You see, just To feed a lazy Purse.