Sparrows

The bitch muse has gone, pulled another fast one.
She knows better than you what makes things shake.
She has taken even the electric blanket and the ice cube
    maker,
The silver spoon in which she cooks her substances.
                She paints her fingernails blue.
The small gap between her front teeth is so irresistible
She becomes second wife to a thousand men, none of whom
    realises he's not her only one.
You should have known better than to bring her home.
You should never have tried to work miracles on a global
    scale.
There are, after all, limits to what a man on stilts can do.

You bagged for yourself only history's brighter plumage.
It is time now to make amends, apologise for the massacre
...