Oh, it’s morning on Olympus and each Muse has donned her frock;
they are waiting for Apollo – they are looking at the clock –
but Apollo’s in the bathroom with a chronic writer’s block.
His novel’s hit the bollards down on Inspiration Road;
there’s an arid little desert where his fluency once flowed;
his verse is in reverse and there’s an O which should be ode.
Apollo thought his Muses could hardly be much breezier;
‘O gods,’ he cried, ‘What’s wrong with me? Perhaps I’ve got amnesia?’
Euterpe said, ‘Well, try a blog – I’m sure you’ll find it easier.’
Apollo got connected – now he’s blogging night and day;
his lyre stands idle on the shelf while he describes the way
a string has snapped, and how he’s got a satyr he must flay.
He catalogues each mortal ache in his immortal knee;
discusses all the deer he’s killed and adds a recipe,
and speculates which god’s amour has changed into a tree.
The nymph of the Pierian spring has packed up in disgust;
the epic bards are trudging north – it’s Hrothgar’s court or bust! -
Apollo’s deathless arrows (like his prose) are cloaked in dust.
Oh, save us from another blog, which seven people read;
how many of us need to know your goldfish doesn’t feed? –
or how your lawn (and perhaps your brain) has really gone to seed?
The zero in the comments box reveals the utter ted-
ium of this infernal craze – this horrid virtual screed;
pull out the plug, O Muse, before our eyeballs start to bleed...
close down, Control/ Alt and Delete – Apollo must be freed!
Lynn Roberts: Blogged Down