I house a solitary soul,
Invisible, reserved,
Who squats within his cubbyhole
When wine and meat are served;

Immortal and invincible,
He scorns the babbling throng
Of fellowship—on principle
Refusing wine or song;

Within a wilderness, employed
By no known earthly powers,
He drags me out to view the void
At inconvenient hours;

And muttering nonsense in my ears,
Incomprehensible
To man or devil, hauls and steers
Me, half insensible

Behind reality’s grim hedge—
Then leers, ‘What’s left to lose?
Sit down to write upon this ledge.’
And I may not refuse...
        This bastard is my muse!