AnneClayr

A muse! A muse! My kingdom for a muse! I cried out once, in search of inspiration. Whilst I did try to fill it with a lovely verse, The blankness of my page continued staring in frustration. And then, upon a wintry day (or was it evening?), A muse had silently appeared. And she (or was it he? It matters not), Had simply taken hold and commandeered A weary and despairing thought. The muse had played with it, and from it Like from an iron rail had wrought A tool, both beautiful and frightening; One, which is so elusive, athough regularly sought. And deep into the heart the muse did thrust it This tool, that has the pow'r to drive a poet to

there once lived a stamp collector who, despite his overall plainness, had a particular way of twisting his mustache that gave all the passers by the willies. One day, when he was waiting for a particularly expensive stamp to arrive, for he had mail-ordered it from an obscure catalogue only he and a few other elite members of the stamp-collecting society were privy to, he was carefully examining a glass jar, inside which was about a tablespoonful of ants. He was growing antsy waiting for this stamp to arrive, so he decided to turn this feeling into a physical metaphor to pass the time, and it only felt logical to choose ants as the centerpiec