I chatted with my muse today
She's quite upset, with much to say.

"You always ask for songs of love,
The earth below, the skies above.
You ask for songs of sailing ships
And villains vile, and lovers lips
You ask for tales of Yukon gold
And people freezing in the cold
And stories set in tropic isles
With gentle natives beaming smiles

You ask for paintings of beauty rare
With ruby lips and auburn hair
Or quiet glades with autumn trees
And butterflies and bumblebees
And I have given every one
But rare the thanks when I am done
Your name goes on, but never mine
And you all think that this is fine.

But this is not my preference
I don't always make such sense
I'd rather that my damsels fair
Were caught at henna-ing their hair
I much prefer to tell a joke
That makes the proper people choke
A ribald song, perhaps quite smutty
Or silly verse, completely nutty

An Escher house, with floors on high
And fishies swimming in the sky
And make up tunes that make you laugh
While other people think you daft
That is what I'd rather do
Than to tell you how much she loves you
I'm much more fond of the trivial
My name, you see, is Doggerel.