Doubtless we will discuss
Poetry and lust
Over so-so Wine.
Then, in the morning
We will yawn.
You will depart.
And I will smile
For a while.
No forlorn
Heart of mine
Or thine.
Merely a rhyme
And maybe,
A next time.
In the dark
An urban
Fox’s bark
Pierces my heart.
I maintain
The urbane.
Amongst friends.
But, in the end,
The glass is thin
Betwixt me and him.
Provider of pleasure.
Romance isn’t free.
Oldest profession
Some say.
Time has a price
In your brief arms.
The clock jingles.
Under the sheet
They meet.
Eagerness of him.
Some say sin.
As the moon shone bright last night
I spied 2 young women by moonlight.
I said, “this here bed
Has seen many a head.
But this rope is a little tight …”.
There was a young man named Parks
Who quoted the works of Karl Marx
To pretty young women,
Who thought of sinning,
Whilst Parks he thought of Karl Marx!
My shadow in front of me.
Leaves fall from a nearby tree.
I think of an old England
I never knew.
Is all I understand
Or maybe half-see
The reality of me?
What is true
When the many/few
Call for Britain’s statues to fall,
And label me merely a reactionary?
On my way home late last night
I met a young lady in white.
She gave me a wave
And returned to her grave.
And the theatre was crowded last night!
I met a beautiful young perfumer
Who had no sense of humour.
They say I spent
My money on scent.
But that’s just a wicked rumour!
When a careless young lady named Wood
Got her stilettos stuck in deep mud
And I said, “get them off”.
She replied, with a shocked cough,
“Not here! In this nasty deep mud!”
K Morris - Poet 