I called on the Muses.
Help! I said.
They upped and left.
You’re so incompetent, they said,
we don’t want to have anything to do with you even if you wrote a Miltonic epic, so
they upped and left.
As you can see the Muses have well and truly gone, disappeared down the plughole, just like that, and all I wanted was a bit of help writing a couple of iambic pentameters or something, but oh! no!
they upped and left.
That’s going to be the last time I call on the Muses for a hand because they’re so up themselves and so choosy who they help out like Shakespeare and Hemmingway and Flannery O'Connor and all them guys as well as Emily Dickinson and what's-his-name but not me apparently because I really really suck and anyway, according to some pictures I’ve seen, the Muses are not too hot themselves especially their view from behind as they leave and they certainly don’t have much dress sense and you know what? they lower the tone so I’m glad
they upped and left.
Anyway, as you can see (ahem),
I’m not doing too bad without them.