The Perfect Poet

He says he is a perfect poet. He lives alone, with his perfect mate. & sometimes they don't even speak, So perfectly do they 'communicate.' He lives alone, his greatest pleasures are His pipes, his books, his wife's behind- Which he will often pinch to hear her laugh; He's got a perfect love for womankind. He seldom writes, distrusting language as A clumsy tool, unequal to his thoughts: He uses it as rarely as he can (No doubt to punish it for all its faults). But when he writes, he keeps the upper hand (On principle, since words are enemies). He melts them down, then counterfeits his own- A kind of literary alchemy. He's fortunate to have a perfect muse. A live-in muse, who cooks inspiringly; And sometimes after an ambrosial meal, He'll grab his pen, composing feverishly A perfect poem, describing in detail The salad, wine, the roast in buttery baste. And reading it, his musing wife agrees That every line smacks of his perfect taste.