One muse of a kind

.
.
You have a kind muse . . .
not me

My muse is over there
bemused at my insolence

She will say anything to embarrass me
and laughs like a witch

We foughat one night
and I killed her

Then I buried her in a shallow grave
and went home and threw another
poem on the stack

Later . . .
there was a knock on the door

I opened it to find
my muse standing there

She spit dirt in my face
and we fought again

Voila !
Another poem hits the stack