I’m ready to explode at any moment,
Filled to the brim with uncreative ire.
The Muse dropped by tonight - a happy omen -
But then, a short while later, she retired.

I honestly can’t blame her for departing,
I know she had good grounds to walk away:
The Muse, at night, in some strange man’s apartment!
God knows what all the gossipers might say.

Yet, I can’t help but feel depressed and weakened,
And, I’ll admit it, just a little piqued.
At Blok’s, I hear, she hung out every week-end,
At Balmont’s, she would stick around for weeks.

I’d hurried to my desk, for greatness famished -
A stroke of genius I, for once, might nab!
But when she left, my inspiration vanished,
As did three roubles (maybe, for a cab?)

I run from room to empty room, still shaking -
Though I’ve forgiven her, I’m hopping mad.
For greener pastures I have been forsaken;
Perhaps, my hospitality was bad?

The giant cake (from grief, no doubt) has crumbled;
Myself, I am exhausted and confused.
My no-good neighbors, in the meantime, stumbled
Upon the rum I’d meant to serve the Muse.

So now I’m bored, as night turns into morning;
I sorely miss that quirky Muse of mine.
She took French leave of me, without a warning,
But still, she gave me two amazing lines.

These lines are proof no poet ranks above me,
And wide acclaim is sure to come my way:
"Thou art so very temperate and lovely.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?"