The life of a poet, in circles it swirls.
There's always a metaphor, always a girl,
and when you forget just who you write for,
There comes an old muse, back wanting more,
Leaving your hands all aflutter, mind near to shaking.
An Old Flame is like a gift that keeps on breaking,
One you must keep track of. It's hard to maintain,
But when she seemed like effort with nothing to gain,
From the Flame rose a Phoenix, who left me a feather.
A supply of quills like that will keep me writing forever.
There's always a metaphor, always a girl,
and when you forget just who you write for,
There comes an old muse, back wanting more,
Leaving your hands all aflutter, mind near to shaking.
An Old Flame is like a gift that keeps on breaking,
One you must keep track of. It's hard to maintain,
But when she seemed like effort with nothing to gain,
From the Flame rose a Phoenix, who left me a feather.
A supply of quills like that will keep me writing forever.
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