My muse drinks from a twelve-ounce mug;
My muse lies prostrate on the rug.
My muse smokes cigarettes (no filter!);
My muse is always out-of-kilter.
In spiky heels and five-foot-seven,
She swears like hell and looks like heaven.
My muse has such a winsome air!
Her leaky roof needs some repair.
My muse is bitchin', like a boss.
My muse is hot Tabasco sauce.
My muse curls up like Whitman's beard;
Her morning fog has almost cleared.
My muse is lonely as a rose;
My muse is Tracy Chapman's toes.
Your muse sells snake-oil on the tube
To housewife and to clueless rube.
Your muse is out to win elections,
And claims his smile cures infections;
Your muse possesses plastic grace,
A handsome, bland, and blue-eyed face.
Your muse is not the likes of me:
He's something of a Pharisee.
Your muse has healthy cheeks of tan,
Is every woman's favourite man.
Your muse looks like a millionaire,
New-and-improved, and debonair.
Your muse can influence the folks
And is adept at witty jokes.
My muse hangs out in seedy bars;
My muse plays out-of-tune guitars.
My muse is stumbling down the street
With woozy head, unsteady feet;
My muse was once a charming girl!
Before she rode the Tilt-a-Whirl,
She had an ounce of self-respect,
But now she's irredeemably wrecked.
Destined she was for lasting fame;
Now, everybody knows her shame.
Her sins are infamous and scarlet,
A sister to the brazen harlot.
But still, I think I'd rather live
With her abjectness than to give
The time of day to those who see
Creation as commodity.