Am I ten angry women on fire?
Am I ten gray-haired loons ranting?
Am I desire on fire, schemer and dreamer?
Is it all about fame, a game called greed, a weed named need?
Do I need to feed my greed good grub to make it grab her?
Do I care about Art and Beauty, Music and Poetry
—or is it all a battle?
harass and her ass?
petulance in perpetuity, prattle?
Am I ten old hags now, charcoal chars on jars, in bottles?
Is the debate over and all gray-haired loons losers?
Ashamed, I hear the muse answer:
"Today you are the old hag, the gray-haired loon, the loser;
and petulance in perpetuity too; prattle, death, and the baby's rattle.
Today I withhold all from you.
'feed my greed?' 'good grub?' 'grab her?'
Good, god, you can do better!"
The muse was not amused today
by petulance or by prattle.
—By Louis Martin