Musing without the Muses

I know I want to pen it down
But it eludes me
Like the top of a dandelion blossom
Floating tantalisingly out of reach
And I ruefully smile away a frown.

There's so much, there is no lack
Of inspiration...no reason
For the Muses to elude me, but
I have no way of making trips
To Milton's warm south and back.

No blushful Hippocrene for me
No sudden inspiration
Nothing that inspires thought
Enough for it to flow uninhibited
Unfettered, feckless, carefree.

So I wonder if I should
Make a virtue of necessity
Let lack of inspiration
Inspire some random poetry
That may or may not be good.

Here's to the sheer absence
Of the Muses, then.
To a mind thoroughly empty
Of any inspiration... or to
Poesy, the slightest pretence.

--- written one exceedingly boring, lazy Sunday morning, while the sun is still in two minds about making an appearance, and I contemplate the fate of cold toast.