My Muse

Classic painters would portray
Gentle fields where muses play.
Mount Olympus into the sky,
There is no rain but nothing's dry.
Birthday suits are all the rave;
There is no sin, for God forgave.
Here the artist has it all
The muse is at his beckon-call.

But my muse is no pleasure,
A dominatrix dressed in leather.
She makes it hurt when I try to think
And I’m not into that kind of kink.
And every time I write a work
She ties me up and goes berserk.
When she’s done and had her way,
I wish for the classical cliché.