The Cliched Muse

Be my muse, she said
And her voice was pleading.
He was pleased, and agreed readily,
But he would always sit in predictable poses
And then she would never paint him.

Who would know if I were never to write again?

Or mourn the death of a rhyme unfurled
Or regret the unborn poem
Or weep at the sour fate that led
To this most technical death?