A farmer on the way to market
Told his beautiful muse
That we’re much too self-conscious
These days
So she said to him
Don’t I know that!
As if she were from New York
By way of Dublin
By way of a steamer
A century ago
Or was it a zeppelin?
Not that it matters
Because she flew on her own,
Regardless
Muses can do that and more
Much more
Like make us think
We’re making the art
When it’s really the muse
Always the muse
But I digress . . .
So the farmer wasn’t nearly as
Self-conscious as he thought
Because years from now
Books will be written
Saying it was Laura
Not Boris
Who wrote the poems
Which is code
For this particular
Dynamic
On this particular
Road to the market
Which is code for another
And still another
Route pathway journey
Imbroglio
Ξ
Life was so much simpler
When conquest theft domination
Were cool
Were hip
Were
No
Big
Deal