Why does my muse look like Nikita Khruschev?
And not a like a lingerie model?
Why can’t everything be how I wish it were
And not how it is
My wishes and fantasies are infinitely better
Than all those soggy realities I’m stuck with
Day after day
Not to complain too much
You know I love my family
My work
My friends
The usual
It’s just that...
Some of my fantasies are so delicious
And the real substantive things
(like my muse)
Are so...
Soviet Secretary in a suit
Bald guy, even
And not curvaceous and sexy
And accompanying come hither look
I get the aroma of spilled bleach
Instead of perfume
Wouldn’t I be more inspired if it were as I wish?
But
I make do with what I have
Try to be thankful
Go on and on
Let what is be
Let what isn’t alone
Muse don’t leave me
Just please,
Change your appearance
No offense
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