The Dark Horse
by Timothy Murphy
The Muse and I conspired to wreck what beauty
I had at birth. Great bags beneath my eyes
surprise me every morning when I rise.
Offering Her a whiskey seemed my duty.
Granting me poems, pheasants every year,
for decades She led me a merry chase.
She loved my ear, never my freckled face,
my cowboy hat, much less my blue-jeaned rear.
There is a stirruped stallion I must mount.
From his nostrils he whinnies plumes of fire.
How short I fall from passing all desire
besides making the Lord’s my last account.
I should repair to Paphos and move on
beyond the Muse who held me so in thrall
when sexual predation was my all,
and study the Long Gospel of St. John.