Twang That Lyre Somewhere Else, Muse

“Every saint and every sinner
Has at least One Novel in ’er.”
Where mine is I do not know.
I’ve been searching high and low.
Tried all methods: hunt and peck;
Hired an analyst on spec —
“You’ll get ten per cent,” I hissed,
“When it’s safe on Scribner’s list.”
Care and cunning he employed;
Probed my innards with sang Freud;
Opened my subconscious wide;
Found neuroses (three) inside;
Checked my ego — bitter cup!
Wiped my windshield; sewed me up.
Slunk away without a fee.
Nary novel could he see.
I tried X-rays and hypnotism;
Tested my metabolism;
Tried a scalpel; tried a sword;
Stethoscope and ouija board.
Found, I’m sorry to report,
Not so much as one short-short.
Sorry, Knopf and Viking Press.
Sorry, Stokes and Essandess.
My apologies to you,
Pulitzer and Nobel, too.
These few lines and I am done.
Literary life was fun.
Hail, ye Muses, and good-bye —
Sorry, girls, the well is dry.