Conversations with Me

Why the dolour, Murphy asks.
I'm hard at work on a million tasks.
Try some more, he says, just focus,
while I perform some hocus pocus.

Your mumbo jumbo, I tell him
and all your crazy vigour and vim,
and all the ideas with which you're toying
are a waste of time, and quite annoying.

He takes offence, walks away in a huff;
pouts, looks mournful, tries acting tough.
Then he yields helplessly to habit -
starts loping around like a li'l jackrabbit.

You waste time yourself, he says with a smirk.
At least I never ignore my work.
My laws, they're sensible and terse -
and look at you, writing rubbish verse!

Your antics, I say, with increasing asperity
are nothing but heirlooms for lame posterity.
You have such a way of goofing up -
causing unwarranted slips 'twixt lip and cup.

And your prose, he goes on, unheeding;
now, that's hardly worth any reading.
Beg pard'n- he twirls daintily on his toes -
you're boring, stupid and verbose.

That'll be all. And I firmly rise.
He looks up with innocent eyes -
Did I do somethin' to tick you off?
Oh yes, I say, I've had enough.

You'll miss me, he insists, as I shove him out.
Oh no I won't, I hear me shout.
Why don't you get lost in the wilderness ,
and spare me all the extra stress?

I return to spinning random tales,
but the Muses elude me. When all else fails,
I stare in dismay at my efforts...
he's right - and this is rubbish verse.

I hear a chuckle, and an illusion crack.
Dear old Murphy is, obviously, back.
Go write tosh. He's warm, indulgent.
I'll render the rambling redundant.