Euterpe, The Queen of Spades

Hail Nicole, so you want to know about my muse?
She is fickle, coming and going as she will choose.
And as to where she is currently, I’m at a loss.
So forgive me if this poem deteriorates into dross.

See how my “lyrical poem” already suffers?
I’m struggling through this as the rough plagues duffers.
Though I burn incense, lay prostrate, shower her with praise.
It seems very rarely does she come to me these days.

The whole situation has come to a crisis.
In the past when this happened I would invoke Dionysus
and he would tempt her to come with a touch of his wine.
But alas, this doesn't work now, to booze she says nein.

She's always been fleeting, a dryad distant in the wood.
To describe her face exactly I know that I could
not detail it, or even tell you her actual name,
but, for now, let's call her Euterpe, the Queen of Spades.

When she did come she brought mystical inspiration.
Characters, gems, quips, lines poured out in inundation.
My hand cramped from the constant dipping of my quill,
And only when the ink ran dry would I finally be still.

Oh the places she has taken me, the people she's shown.
So clearly, so intimately, I feel as though I've known
them all of my life, they've become my true friends.
Except I have been their muse, in control of their ends.

From the messiah who forgot he was to save a world.
He wakes up, does so, but in the end loses the girl.
To a poet-warrior cat who daily battles his foe,
Indomitable String, until he can fight no more.

But seeing as Euterpe's holding out on me I ponder,
What other colorful characters is she denying me I wonder?
Maybe a laconic, wax-mustached, law man Texan,
or a whooping Apache Chief with red muscles flexing.
 
Now Euterpe was most wicked when she rolled with Eros.
She would tell him just when to pepper me with arrows.
Then I would fall in love, with say, someone half my age,
and I'd write frightening verse to her, page after page.

Said woman danced and played in my daydreaming mind.
I was smitten by her and I couldn't help but find,
her laughter so lilting it made my heart ache,
her smile is so lovely I couldn't think straight.

Excuse me for I seem to have taken a digression,
into fantasies of cradle robbing I should be repressing.
It's my muse I'm here to describe and not my lust.
I'll get back to Euterpe, as I should, as I must.

What does Euterpe look like?  I couldn't exactly say,
for when she leaves me my mind is all a haze.
I remember enough to say her beauty is so fair
that Aphrodite, Helen of Troy and even Cher don't compare.

From this pathetic, disjointed poem it's plain to see
that my slippery bitch of a muse has abandoned me.
I’m going to flip the script, my guide I’ll try to choose
Fair and kind hearted Nicole, will you be my muse?


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