Writing Muse! Writing Muse!
At boring work I heard your cry.
Writing Muse! Writing Muse!
Here I am, ready to shoot the sky.
I know in my heart the book I should write,
And I shall publish it with all my might.
A writer of the Vagabonds should be creative,
Succeed where a less ingenious gypsy would flunk.
Write a sentence without a single gerund,
Compose a sex scene to leave the readers stunned,
Pen a book that no reader would dare refund.
No matter the struggle, she ought to be unflaggable,
Impossible scenerios should be as natural as air.
But where in the world
Is there in the world
A writer so *extraordinaire*?
C'est moi! C'est moi, I'm forced to confess.
'Tis I, I meekly reply.
That mortal who
These wonders can do,
C'est moi, c'est moi, 'tis I.
I've never lost
In penned prose or wit;
I'm simply the best by far.
When characters are crossed
'Tis always the same:
One keystroke and au revoir!
C'est moi! C'est moi! I am so blessed!
An Amish Nora Roberts unbound.
And here I sit, with wit audacious,
Exeption'ly corny, steamin’ly salacious,
To serve at the Gypsy campfire round!
The soul of a writer should be quite outstanding,
Her heart and her mind as brave as Will Ferrell.
With a force and resolve
Round all ideas do revolve
She could easily work a Happy Ending in Hell.
To love and desire she ought to be demanding,
The ways of the flesh should offer every allure.
But where in the world
Is there in the world
A writer so sexually secure?
(C'est moi!)
C'est moi! C'est moi, I blush to disclose.
I'm far too noble to lie.
That writer in whom
These qualities bloom,
C'est moi, c'est moi, 'tis I.
I've never procrastinated
From the book I am writing;
I'm blessed with a one-tracked mind.
Had I published
Far before now,
I’d still be on tours with fan lines.
C'est moi! C'est moi! The angels have chose
To write their love scenes in prose,
And here I stand, as wicked as Sodom,
Incredibly boastful, with ego to spare,
The conceitedest writer I know!
C'est moi!
