227 A friend asks you to recommend a book: which book would you choose and why?

I sing more languages than you may know,
And would agree, thy lives are but a show.
And on the whole, some can be entertaining,
But hear, a life of endless Gigs is draining.

Those who would judge me may say at a look,
I ain’t the kind to recommend a book.
The truth is somewhat different, (in my role,
I am at least as happy with a scroll.)
My library is, sadly, far away.
But, from my memory, it seems best to say,
That Plato wrote quite well, so Socrates,
Was shown with wit that would be sure to please,
(While Xenophon, the military kind,
Showed Socrates to be of duller mind.
But if they quote philosophy or jest,
Their writings still show their own minds the best.)

But Alcibiades wrote a journal, once,
And that’s a man that never was a dunce,
Although in war he was oft' known as rash,
In private life - well, he was into “slash,”
And “het” as well, (and things that I can’t rhyme.
Like other men of Athens in his time!)
(But I forget, the censors had their way,
There was no public printing in that day,
And there were those who thought the volumes dross,
That library was burned, to human loss.
A scroll or two, a palimpsest, no more
Were saved to serve the ages as before.)


It seems my mind has wandered far away,
The questioner said “A book”, and for today.
Will Shakespeare wrote quite well, but then erelong,
you’ll find that reading him affects your song.

Ah, fret me not, you’ll get no more from me!
I haven’t seen a bookshop recently.
It’s not your modern writers that I spurn,
Your modern “paper” is too quick to burn!

Muse, "Sweet" the singing demon.
Fandom, BTVS
Words 280

Theatrical Muse 228, 3a.m.

3a.m.

Humans say that midnight is the witching hour, but I’ve heard 3a.m. called the vampire hour. They sing that it’s the hour that leeches away human strength and stamina, the time when humans tend to die, the hour when energies burn the lowest and the life-fires dim.

That may be so when humans are old or sick. I’ve heard that 3a.m. is the hour when Death drifts between the sickbeds and the scythe swings slow, with no one to hear the movement, or to see the light shine a dim glimmer along the moving blade.

I wouldn’t know, that ain’t my kind of Gig, (and Death can tap-dance but he don’t sing too well.) I’ve been called to hospitals in the past, and to lazar houses and the plague villages, but with me some kind of happy ending’s part of the deal, and those ain’t the places to have one.

If I’ve gotta be around at 3a.m. I’ll head for the bars. “In vino veritus”, they say - and it’s easy enough to start a drunk singing.

Muse; “Sweet” the singing demon.
Fandom, BTVS
Words, 170