While musing, I drift in a twilight zone—
I’m cocked back in my chair, pad on my lap,
As if I’m waiting for a cosmic phone
To ring and wake me from my hapless nap
With some inspiring message, setting me
Along a course in an iambic trot
Toward an undetermined destiny,
Such as my Muse may generously allot.
It’s clear by now, however, that this verse
Is not the one that I was hoping for
Because there’s hardly any poem that’s worse
Than one that talks about itself or
Wastes its reader’s time with folderol
Like this. I clearly missed that cosmic call.