I’m no saint praying on a terrace
With bleeding roses!
Or the clock that doesn’t strike a pose!
As did Moses supposed!
But I struck a chord when you stopped and caught me kissing a young libertine when the troupe performed in the dark woods of Never Never Land.
I was never naked and ready to act out your sordid fantasy in a French provincial schoolgirl uniform.
You knocked and knocked in parlours of romance and intrigue but
Played in my penny arcade of a flickering pornographic princess of erotic prose.
I could have been Marquis De Sade’s wanton vixen or Ribaud’s rudimentary arbitrator on a lexicon chopping block.
But you did happily paint over my crotch with a tickling rogue brush!!
So as a muse I’ve never been so amused by the news that you mewed.
The curse of being a muse!