My muse came to me last night
Nagging me to start to write
It’s been years since we met last
Scruffy stalker of the past.
My old teacher knew my curse
Like bottomless painful thirst
Loneliness brought burning anguish
Only writing could extinguish
My verses of happiness
Always rang false in a mess
Silent muses of the war
In peace they found me a bore
Never forced my heart to sing
An instrument with a string
In landscapes so desolate
My yearning would resonate
So I let some years to pass
Didn’t toast or raised a glass
To my muse and by gone sadness
Left behind that world of madness
Never thanked him in my dreams
Frolicked in the new found greens
Held my man a little tighter
I’m a lover not a fighter.
Old folk say don’t grab too much
Don’t claim all that you can touch.
Greedy hands will all unfold
Showing what you really hold.
Empty arms and empty bed
Loosing treasures once I had
Conjured up my stubborn muse
Like last time, he blew a fuse.
Stumbling by a candle light
Felt him shuffling by my side
He smelled of wine and cigarette
Not a muse you would expect.
Forget maids with marble skin
Angels guarding you from sin
My muse is a scruffy bum
Asking you for ripe old rum.
Barefoot, hanging dirty wings
Playing with my silver rings
Searching for new written pages
An invasion so outrageous
Moaning, shuffling, sudden chuckle
How could he ease any trouble?
Held my hand looked deep in my eyes
His pale blue eyes shaming the skies
“Can’t offer me drink or food
Your treasures not worth the loot.
Take a feather from my wing
They were styled by the wind.
My feet dirty from the road
I walked when I heard you called
Did you expect a blue fairy?
They hide from people who are teary.
No vials of fairy dust
It’s my pockets I don’t trust.
Once they held a broken heart
Through a hole it took to flight.
Once the high priest of heartbreak
Appear to you at your wake
Grieving over days of pleasure
I help you find your greatest treasure.
Mixture of tears and some ink
And the courage not to think
Let your hands follow my feather
Let your heart sing from the deep well.
Call me Scruffy when you write
The full moon will shine so bright
Never mind your broken fuse
You’re not alone with your muse.”
So I again took to writing
Was it for the people’s liking?
I took the words as they came…
It is Scruffy you can blame.
THE END
Nagging me to start to write
It’s been years since we met last
Scruffy stalker of the past.
My old teacher knew my curse
Like bottomless painful thirst
Loneliness brought burning anguish
Only writing could extinguish
My verses of happiness
Always rang false in a mess
Silent muses of the war
In peace they found me a bore
Never forced my heart to sing
An instrument with a string
In landscapes so desolate
My yearning would resonate
So I let some years to pass
Didn’t toast or raised a glass
To my muse and by gone sadness
Left behind that world of madness
Never thanked him in my dreams
Frolicked in the new found greens
Held my man a little tighter
I’m a lover not a fighter.
Old folk say don’t grab too much
Don’t claim all that you can touch.
Greedy hands will all unfold
Showing what you really hold.
Empty arms and empty bed
Loosing treasures once I had
Conjured up my stubborn muse
Like last time, he blew a fuse.
Stumbling by a candle light
Felt him shuffling by my side
He smelled of wine and cigarette
Not a muse you would expect.
Forget maids with marble skin
Angels guarding you from sin
My muse is a scruffy bum
Asking you for ripe old rum.
Barefoot, hanging dirty wings
Playing with my silver rings
Searching for new written pages
An invasion so outrageous
Moaning, shuffling, sudden chuckle
How could he ease any trouble?
Held my hand looked deep in my eyes
His pale blue eyes shaming the skies
“Can’t offer me drink or food
Your treasures not worth the loot.
Take a feather from my wing
They were styled by the wind.
My feet dirty from the road
I walked when I heard you called
Did you expect a blue fairy?
They hide from people who are teary.
No vials of fairy dust
It’s my pockets I don’t trust.
Once they held a broken heart
Through a hole it took to flight.
Once the high priest of heartbreak
Appear to you at your wake
Grieving over days of pleasure
I help you find your greatest treasure.
Mixture of tears and some ink
And the courage not to think
Let your hands follow my feather
Let your heart sing from the deep well.
Call me Scruffy when you write
The full moon will shine so bright
Never mind your broken fuse
You’re not alone with your muse.”
So I again took to writing
Was it for the people’s liking?
I took the words as they came…
It is Scruffy you can blame.
THE END
