[Style: Folk Rock with Irish village elements — fiddle, acoustic guitar, bodhrán, tin whistle. Tempo: moderately upbeat. Energy: ironic, pub-like storytelling. Mood: witty and resigned.] [Intro: instrumental – fiddle + guitar, short pub ambience] [Verse 1] I woke up thinking, Clear of liquor, Poured me some beer and took a glance. I meant to ponder nature quicker, But thought escaped — not a chance. I look around — the usual setting, Same old street and TV glow. I flip through Playboy, tired, forgetting What I was trying not to know. [Shouted break]: Aye, the Muse be drunk again! [Verse 2] That autumn gloom? No longer trendy — Too dull, too dusty, way too old. Some rhymes on people spun up gently, But none were worth their weight in gold. [Shouted break]: Sing us a song, ya lazy sod! [Verse 3] On sex? I’m bored — it’s overplayed, It’s all been done a thousand times. Maybe on woods or grass and glade? Nah, not my style… perhaps on slime? [Shouted break]: Not the shite again, lad! [Verse 4] I cursed out loud, then in frustration I sought the Muse in bathroom gloom. I strained in vain, with no creation — No rhyme. No Muse. No theme. No room. [Shouted break]: Call the midwife! He’s birthing air! [Verse 5] But folks, just look — no need for guessing, I passed through all the rings of hell. I tried to find some deeper blessing — And boom — the poem wrote itself. [Outro: fiddle + guitar fade-out, crowd laughter]
