OUGH

If I empty my mind – pack it brimful of nought,
I’ll be granted, perhaps, an original thought.
And like ripples that grow on a cold, tranquil lough
When its shallows are breached by a deer’s dainty hough,
Ripened apples will fall and the ideas flow through,
As they did for the scion of Hannah Ayscough.

I’ve heard tell of a muse ‘neath an old chestnut bough;
She who steered writers down the lone furrow they plough.
If I feigned and assumed a consumptive-like cough,
Would it draw her compassion, could I climb from this trough?
No – I’ve tried all the tricks and despite I’ve been thorough,
I feel lost and unchained like a Mayor with no borough.

Now, I never expected great oodles of dough;
Mainly, poets are poor – if you’re offering though …?
I would gladly give up, swapping smooth for the rough,
But I know there are few wholly stupid enough.
That’s the way of the world – and as well as that hiccough,
Rotten verses and rhymes are a poor way to pick-up.