Poet

“Choose a viewpoint,” said the Master,
and the poet said, ‘I choose my own!
I’ll ride the night on a cat’s whisker
and bellow a golden poem;
It will shoot like a comet into fast time,
find a new rhythm with no rhyme;
It will spellbind even you, good sir,
(and your lovely unwittingly witty sister);
It will weep rainbows and raise rages like
no other poem of any age has;
And when it’s completed, you will have
sipped from a great poet’s sass and
cocky creative inebriance;
This should explain in small riddle how
this universe became a mudpuddle,
but no worry if it doesn’t;
Even the best of bees have buzzed
and buzzn’t.”