If I won the lottery
No doubt I would find,
At the age of 53,
Young women chasing me,
For my great mind
And my fine poetry.
And I would enjoy the charms
Of many a young woman’s arms.
But, strange to say
When all my pay
Had gone away, they would say,
“We have no interest in thee,
And your poor poetry …!”.
I find
This wind
Does bring
To mind
The passing of everything.
The tide
Of lust
Does rise
Then go.
I know
That I am dust.
The windblown trees
Accept the breeze
And entrance
In dance
Of pleasure
In summer weather.
As do we.
She is not meant
For such as me.
Yet, should she,
In madness, consent,
I would be happy
For a little while.
Smile. And repent.
There was a young lady named Gwen
Who owned a most clever old hen.
It’s name was White,
And it could write,
As it had swallowed Gwen’s fountain pen!
There was a young man named Lot
Who fell in love with a chatbot.
His friends called him sad,
Which made him quite mad!
As that chatbot was really quite hot!
I know a young lady named Dawn
Who likes to dance on my lawn.
When I say, “heels ruin my grass!”,
She says, “all things must surely pass!”.
That naughty and philosophical young lady Dawn!
I know a young lady named Heart
Who is famous for showing her art.
Some call her rude,
When she models nude.
But I say Heart shows her art …!
My heart entangled
With girlish bangles.
A girl’s jewels
Oft make fools
Of weak man
But who can
Jangling bangles resist
On feminine wrist?
A young lady whose name is Vickers
Is well known for losing her knickers.
A bishop called Paul
Says, “we all fall”,
As he admires those knickers of Vickers …!
They perform.
I drink
And think
Of Dowson’s grey dawn,
Of women and men,
And of how when
I die
Perchance, some of my
Poetry, may survive them,
And me.
K Morris - Poet 