He knew something had to be done
when he was fired for submitting
the financial report to his boss
in rhyming couplets.
It has to be that damned Erato,
or her tawdry side-kick, Thalia.
He never liked that name Erato:
it made him think of errors.
Well, rat poison won't work,
they don't eat.
A shotgun will miss the mark;
how about a cannon
or a dirty bomb?
Finally he thought he had found
the perfect weapon:
a deluxe, industrial-sized fly-swatter.
When She flutters annoyingly around
his PC while he's composing resumes,
he makes his move: Splat!
But muses are eternal.
She rises up like the Phoenix
and begins to quote Sylvia Plath's
Dying is an art
I do it exceptionally well....'**
**From 'Lady Lazarus, ' Sylvia Plath, Vintage Book of Contemporary Poetry.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.