Some days, I find my Muse’s song
A little too unsavoury,
And so I find myself in hunt
Of ideas more suitable.

I walk up to the kitchen nook,
Surround myself with poem books,
And peel a book at any page,
Another at another page,
Another, yet another page,
And so on till I open all,
And take the words in as they fall,
And spin them in my blender brain
Until a novel metaphor
Arises from their pulped remains.

I taste it with the confidence
Of Cheetahs chewing bovine cud
To get insights into the minds
Of unsuspecting customers.
I like the sweetened aftertaste
And so conclude it must be good
Enough to pass for daily bread,
While hoping that, some day instead,
A better Muse will bring my food.

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