To read the latest issue, click 'Issues by year' in the menu above

Of many things the Muses sang,
Which rocked my stony mind to sleep.
A few good thoughts were mine to keep,
For like a well-made boomerang

They circled high and then came back
To lodge upon my mossy roof,
Providing me with ample proof
That I need not despair for lack

Of new ideas. Thus it goes,
I write this poor excuse for verse,
Aware it might have gone much worse
Had I been sober. Heaven knows,

I need a drink while spilling ink
When critics think my poems stink.