Sense Sonnet - Steamer

 Muse at My Worst

I miss my muse's other half

Whenever I write sonnets whole.

Juiced up by wine by the carafe,

I really sweat to bear my soul.

But better half of my muse goes

Not wanting to waste time I guess

To aid and abet my throes

Of masterpiecing up a mess.

Later when sobered up I find

A sonnet that did come from me,

A proofread of my impaired mind,

And makes me muse - how could this be!

Whenever he wrote a sonnet,

Shakespeare's whole muse was in on it.