A Bitter Come Uppance From a Snotty Muse

Disturb me not, perversely, I am vexed,

your fault I blame for splitting wholesome seams,

and like a cow whose bitter teat drips sour,

I'm left to curse the pig who gives no cream.

These words defeat my nose's tender dreams,

for smelling words of Lavender and Rose,

delights my pen's belief it never stinks,

this pile of manure on paper grows.

It must be yours that squishes between toes,

for mine was always fresh as Spring's first grass,

your morning sat beneath me as I wrote,

each raking blade a stain upon my ass.

I never knew each villager I passed,

remarked in whispers, " She's a bad 'un, that ."

They said I stank, my ass was green and worse,

my book of poetry was getting fat.

To home I fled confessing to my cat,

prolificly, " I'm battered and abused! "

Ignoring me, her whiskers purred the lap,

" We're done with tea. Stop whining. ", said my muse.