There once was a poor rhymer named Gus
Who, on becoming overwhelmed with wickedness and lust,
Entered a house of ill repute
Where he played upon his flute.
As the girls sang, “poetry, ‘tis but dust!”.
Volumes fill my room.
A girl’s sweet perfume
May make me smile
For a little while.
Poetry survives, our brief lives.
Whilst the linger of fingers
From the present time,
Are caught in rhyme
I cut bread
And momentarily forget.
Then, a smile, tinged with regret.
You are dead.
There will be
No Labrador nose, to deprive me
Of my tea.
“Shall I
Let life pass me by?
At night
Comes the pleasure of sinning
With women
Of a rather particular kind.
Yet beyond the delight
Of sinning and women
I find
The night
Where love and lust
Are nought but dust.”
K Morris - Poet 