When a young lady named Kate
Invited me out on a date,
My good friend Miss Lou
Lost more than her shoe,
But we all enjoyed our date!
A poem written by me some time back.
Are we just our geans
Means
To a meaningless conclusion,
A confusion of arms, legs and bed?
The head
Is often overruled
By the fool
Lust.
Into eternity we thrust
Desperately hoping to leave one of our kind
Behind
Ere our dalliance ends in dust.
Some find it easy to write about death
And readers raise
A glass in praise
Of their art.
Larkin feared the loss of breath
And, in Aubade
Played out his fears.
Whilst others hide inside
Their art
The fear that lurks within their heart.
When I found a young lady named Lin
Hiding in my kitchen bin
I said, with a sigh,
“I’m an open minded guy,
But to hide in my bin is a sin!”.
You called him, who does lack
The capacity to answer back
A “parasite”.
Whilst its undoubtedly true
That you have a right
To your point of view,
I do wonder what use are you
To society But, out of propriety
Of course I didn’t say that . . .
When a young lady of an ancient profession
Said, “sir, I must make a shocking confession,
Do you know
A bishop Jo?”,
I replied, “dear madam, please show some discretion!”.
Perhaps some things should not be said
In poetry,
Or maybe
They can not be said
Meaningfully by me.
As does nearly always happen
My train stopped, dead
At Clapham
(Though not for its proper, brief
Stay). We did not pull away.
What can be said
About grief
(Not experienced by me)?
Perhaps some things should not be said
In poetry.
When, that evening I came back
The track at Clapham
Was clear.
We made good time.
Though a drear
Thought did cross my mind,
But I find
That some things can not easily be said
In rhyme
By me, as I sit here, warm
Thinking of the ajacent platform
And how our train stopped, dead,
But, perhaps some things should not be said
In poetry,
Or at least by me.
