When nothing seems to matter very much,
I reach out for a bottle, not my pen -
and all my poems sound like double dutch.
The alcoholic muse, with her dead clutch,
pours out another drink, or maybe ten -
when nothing seems to matter very much.
This cheap wine serves me as a broken crutch,
supporting the piss-artistry of zen -
and all my poems sound like double dutch.
Am I so maudlin? Have I lost my touch?
Tip up the bottle - never ask me when -
when nothing seems to matter very much.
