— It’s all very well going to hell
in a handcart made of rhyme,
but who will feed the children
and make an honest dime?
— Fear not, my gentle beldam,
for the Muse of Poetry
will feed our pretty offspring,
some left o’er for you and me.
— Then tell your Muse the kids need shoes
and the bank foreclosed the loan.
We’ll be o’er at my mother’s place
— don’t bother to phone.