• Though I may call myself a poet,
    we both know it’s not true
    My muse, she left me long ago.
    She ran off to be with you.
    Since then my rhymes have lost their luster.
    My mind has lost its heart.
    And it gets worse, my dear old friend,
    the longer we’re apart.
    Words tumble out, but die halfway.
    Their meaning: quite unclear.
    My muse, she used to catch them for me.
    She made them pleasant to the ear.
    I can’t remember when she left,
    but I know she did one day.
    Now when she comes to visit
    I beg with her to stay.
    But she has to leave, to be with you.
    You need her more than I.
    And so, I’m forced to let her go.
    I have to say “Goodbye”.