A muse permeating, imbuing, tingeing, sounding,
Yet secretly piercing, soaking, staining, bawling out
In a clime so green and brown, some grey and red,
Most striking black and blue ubiquitous.
A bee, a nice-looking bird, both teasing, one knowing.
Some greet the muse, though call her by a misnomer,
But neither does bother. I reclusively know the name:
It is an eponym, a regal title only respected by me,
(Any ignoramus’d at best discern it as a nom de plume)
And in the Masters’ language I have pledged to worship it
Till the colors did us part – and beyond.