100 Words:  “Sing then, O Muse, about … yourself!” What’s your muse like?

She tickles with her tongue,
And she pokes with pitchfork tines,
Enticing with seductive voice,
And wheedling with whines.

She flees when I pursue her
But creeps up unawares,
Striking at most awkward times
With lightning-bolted snares.

Keyboard tapping mutters
And calls to contemplate
Offspring wild and wonderful
With her to procreate.

I ignore her at the peril
Of guilt and shame and woe,
For every child I didn’t birth
Right when she told me so.

She’s a harsh but lovely mistress
Who weeps when I refuse,
Ah, what will-o-wisps call out to me
When sings my fickle muse.

(Yikes.  Poetry is hard — poetry with a limitation on the word count is even harder.  Not 100% happy with this, but happy enough.  It captures how I feel about her, anyway.  This was my topic, by the bye, though I had no idea at the time I did it that I was going to write this.)