My Muse is a dud

There is among poets a time-honored tradition of writing one's best work in dreams; the most famous example is Xanadu, which came to Coleridge in (what we will call, for argument's sake) a dream. Apparently, the very plan for Kubla Khan's pleasure dome was itself inspired by a dream (this from the all-knowing Wiki).

Upon waking this morning, I realized that my muse had struck in the night, and I immediately called Heather to pen down the lines I had been given in my sleep. The poem that appeared on the page suggests to me that the muse enjoys a greater synergy with subjects who, like Coleridge and John Lennon, are willing to invest the extra capital in chemical aids. It is possible that the historical pattern will hold true, and that this will be my greatest-ever work of poetry. Fortunately, my career depends solely upon my prose skills.

I'd like to add that my muse seems to have been consulting the works of Isaac Watts, which collaboration I fear I may have brought upon myself: his hymns are the subject of a large portion of my thesis.

It is with mixed feelings that I submit, for your edification and for posterity, my dream-poem, which I wrote upon a phantom chalk-board below my friend Tim Petersen's composition in Icelandic, a work of incomparable genius which is lost forever in the mists of slumber:

I am the earth.
The earth was a tree.
Its people were happy
'Til I sat on a bee.

They cried out with one voice
To object to the thing,
And I found that their noise
Was as bad as the sting.