My muse is out of my league.
My sonnets come off like bad pick-up lines
and she goes home with some pretty boy
who knows how to talk her up.
And I’d go to hell and back for her,
but she sits with her friends at the bar
poking fun at me, sad poetic sack.
I try to view this rejection philosophically.
In the end I guess we can’t complain
if no one takes us poets seriously:
Orpheus had the best of both worlds,
and still couldn’t follow
a simple set of instructions.