Like the Ostrogoths of lore, my muse of sloth startles from long slumber,

And with it comes ideas for which I am tragically outnumbered.

A bar has been broken, and with expression I am encumbered—

Though my greatest dread is for my inspiration to be blundered.

A growler in the back if my thoughts tells me to save them for later,

While another matches volume and replies, “Toss them down with no chaser!”

I hope to not depress you, know I am ecstatic to have things to say and make greater,

But there is only one of me housing the tourism of countless interesting flavors.