Won’t you, Muse, Jupiter, or Lord,
Help me?—no, not with inspiration
Which Love or reading always has restored;
But help me with my modern situation.
I’d like to write, and well I sit,
And my thoughts reach, and swells my heart—
But what use is all that? So what for Wit!
When something’s near so shiny and so smart?
I mean that there my sleek smartphone
That, through its apps and algorithms,
So coaxes me I can’t leave it alone,
Stealing my time meant for iambic rhythms.
So help me if you deign, Apollo,
Or you, his daughter, Calliope,
That I may sit, on that device not wallow,
And often for good verse to follow hope.