One day the Muses thought
it would be fun
to neuter me.
They reasoned that my energies
might concentrate
on ink-dropped nibs,
and not on those other instruments.
But heigh-ho hunters like me,
deprived of darts and arrow-shafts
do not go hunting—
we sleep in with the hounds,
and lazily dip our calami
in weakling oak-gall tea
to bleed our magic out
with sorrow.
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