To A Poet

I NEVER call'd thy Muse splayfooted,
Who sometimes wheez'd, and sometimes hooted,
As owls do on a lonely tower,
Awaiting that propitious hour
When singing birds retire to rest,
And owls may pounce upon the nest.
I only wish she would forbear
From sticking pins into my chair,
And let alone the friends who come
To neutralize thy laudanum.
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