Pous the Muse

 

 

 

 

Cooking has never been her thing

But pulses as the spice of life

And is its flavor.

 

 

She's Pous, Muse extraordinaire

As mother to muses she's kind

As guide she's superman.

 

 

Named for the reverse of hot soup

She has many other forms too

Like Opus the skilled improv.

 

 

She's also Poussin the liqueur

Pours herself with selfless mercy

In all manner of injuries.

 

 

And there's a part ugly and vile

Like poison gushing from the pit

Its Poos, a suspect baby's fart.

 

 

Long has she waited

For this moment, her love to show

As man finds homie with mumsy.