Wicked muse, fair-weather friend,
I can’t talk to you tonight;
The sounds of raindrops descend
Like soft breeze on a dim light.

An everyday has mussed my face,
Shall I get up to brush my teeth?
You tempt me with an odd verse
And not much after or beneath.

I am counting on your being here,
I so badly want to rhyme.
But here we haven’t a full Shakespeare,
Not even a Sondheim.

If I turn on the light, do you promise to stay,
Wicked muse, oh, to play?
Our history unveils a nay,
And I dare not for fear of scaring you away.