While shopping in the stationers,
I saw exotic inks,
And right beside them was a shelf
Of writers’ favorite drinks.
A single bottle drew my eye;
I thought I’d like to try it.
Before another grabbed it first,
I stepped right up to buy it.
The drink was labeled “Writer’s Craft,”
The skill of my desire.
I hoped that by imbibing, I’d
When I got home, I popped the cork
And took a couple sips.
My talent started rising as
The first taste crossed my lips.
My muse, that I’d not seen for months,
Came out of hiding boldly,
Apologizing he’d of late
Been treating me so coldly.
We sat together, he and I,
While I consumed my potion.
And then he jumped into my mind
And set my hands in motion.
I typed so many words so fast
With such facility,
I gazed with great amazement at
My grand ability.
Though Shakespeare was a genius,
A literary artist,
Of all the world’s word artisans,
I must now be the smartest.
But my elixir soon wore off,
Alas! My muse departed,
And I was left with naught to write—
Alone and broken-hearted.
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