THE MUSE AND THE JUICE: An Ode to ‘Roids
Despite the pressures of my muse,
While writing this, I did not juice.
I might be subtler, more profound,
With cultured people’s praises crowned,
If performance enhancers I had downed.
Yet every morn I grab my pen.
I’m swinging for the fence again,
Honing mood and tone and meter,
Shunning erudite Velveeta,
While the gimlet-eyed all mutter, “Cheater.”
If offered Poet Growth Hormone,
Speaking for myself alone,
I’d shun sub-dermal shots in favor
Of a potion with robust flavor
Robert Burns was said to savor.
Boost the power of my thinkage?
Not when the tincture causes shrinkage
To my oeuvre. Tis too great a risk
I’ll be marooned on a copy desk,
My good name and my asterisk.
UPDATE: Please check the comments to this post for a poetical rebuttal from Jim U-Boat, The Poet Laureate of Calumet City, Illinois.
Poetry Juice
Ok, ok, I will admit…
I might have had a single hit
Of poet juice (back then new-fangled)
– To be their laureate I angled
When Cal City’s wreath to me was dangled
A guy I knew who would not bluff
Said, “try a little of this stuff.
It’ll only cost you one thin dime
And in a very little time
All your poetry will rhyme.”
(Poetry that does not rhyme
was, I thought, an awful crime)
The pill was in a tiny jar
I downed it with a PBR
And dreamt I’d be a superstar
The juice just gave a week of work
And brought with it a nagging quirk
The seller was not telling me
The rhymes were all in Bengali
I’ve been juice free since ‘93
Jim U-Boat
Poet Laureate of Calumet City, IL
Here I sit, broken-hearted
A poet felled afore he started…