When the Muse Doth Strike

I’m usually busy doing laundry
or scraping gunk from counters
which must be thoroughly degunked
and each scrap of fabric duly imbued
with the subtle scent of lilies
by 8:43 p.m. when Edna comes back in
or else she’ll totally freak out.

But lo and hark! For while I scrub scrub scrub,
still doth the Muse press her wordful weight
upon my fearful mind, whispering
similes deep into my hair, whispering
like a whisperer whispering whispery stuff, such as:
“the cuddly sarcophagus peas like an infantile sneeze”
which line, upon amateur explication defies explanation,
refuses validation from the lower poetry classes
quaintly fond of tintinnabulation
but leaves with such the sensation of an anticipation,
that some snooty-eyed professor will pronounce canonization
upon that line, after the Ph.D.
is through staring at a puddle, ponderously,
all alone,
with no one there,
to hold his or her professorial hand.

But pay the Muse-ical whisperings no mind,
my Ever-Cleaning Soul! Think solely on the thought
of Edna, in a clean room, (and hot!)
For the hoary-headed Muse, comparatively, is wimpy
and if thou ever hast hopes that Edna will don that skimpy
red dress- the shoulder pads strutting like strawberry muffins
the licorice-lace lunging betwixt
thy bedroom pals, Trixie and Dixie
and since thou doth much prefer Edna
pressing her weight upon you,
forsake the Muse
pay thy housecleaning dues
and soon thou shalt triumphantly glide
on rivers of sex
in sexy sexual sex-filled canoes!