A Sonnet & My Muse

 

Do I wait for my Love, wait for this muse
To find me napping, or with pen in hand
Only to savour each whimsied demand
Where I shall be punished should I refuse

And should I refuse, yet follow her still
My muse may bless with an exquisite penance
The prick of her whip my arrant ebullience
Which fills my blood with a dubious thrill

And with this blood may I find the diction
To letter each name she calls in rapture
‘Fore I collapse beneath her exhaustion
Recording each wail she deems I capture

Dear Love, be merry; I came to my muse!
With a pen in hand, how could one refuse?

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