He sat at his desk, hours at length
Waiting for the Muse’s touch.
He tried call forth inspiration’s strength.
To compose a ballad of ‘The Dancing Dutch’.
The Bard was a very famous man,
Brilliance they expected from him then.
Burdened with expectations amassed
The Bard kept crying; his writing crass.
The Night slowly crept for Dawn
And suddenly he witnessed a bright new morn.
The Bard now ‘fraid of his plight,
His ruthless King awaited a ballad at twilight.
And as the time trickled past
That minuscule hole in the hourglass,
Alas The Bard abandoned all hope
And prepared himself for the hangman’s rope.
At dusk, he presented himself to The King
Said ” I tried but couldn’t write a thing.”
The hangman readied his apparatus
Grasping an opportunity he didn’t get as much.
On the gallows, The Bard was asked
To choose the words that’d be his last.
And out flew a beautifully composed ballad
That prompted the King to stand in awe of the lad.
Alas, Fate had the last laugh
You see, The Bard had cheated his way to the top.
And his best and most original work
Was the last word that spouted from his throat.
And so this tale of That Elusive Muse,
Has been sung by bards who seek to amuse.