In The Mirror
|As night approaches a mysterious muse encroaches on the minds of writers
seeking solace to drink their sorrows still
Just a sip of self-pity is all it takes to fill their well
and dip the poisoned tip of their trembling quill in the ink of solitude
Soon, their words emerge from the deepest, darkest pit of their ‘literary hell’
Sojourns of nightly roaming’s in rhymes of; "thee," or "thou," or even "thine"
Endless nights of pomposity and bombasity such as, "ain't I grand," and, “check me out”
Legions of blind follower-fans that fill the stands in shoeless, three-piece splendor
“Metrical” is back in demand and without it, banishment to that black island is assured
So, revive the ego and bring back the killer quill and swiftly attack the rhythmic megalomaniac!
You can ask, but I won't tell you...
...just bein' Bluesy