There was a young lady named Pam
Who liked to gorge on boiled ham.
When they said, “you’re a pig!”,
She would chew on her wig
As she rolled in marmalade and jam!
There was a young lady named Pam
Who liked to gorge on boiled ham.
When they said, “you’re a pig!”,
She would chew on her wig
As she rolled in marmalade and jam!
There once was a man named Banes
Who had a great obsession with drains.
Being small and thin
He often fell in
Which caused Banes pains in those drains!
These fallen leaves
On the cold January ground
Send a message profound.
I am bound
To be as these leaves
And fertilize the ground.
I know a young lady named Honey
Who has found I’ve come into money.
She’s proposed to me
Along with Miss Lee,
But I can’t marry Lee and Honey!
Sometimes the fox’s bark
Pierces the dark
As our bodies meet
Under comforting sheets.
A girl’s soft kiss
And exploring hands
Can command my lust.
But your bark,
So cold and sharp
Speaks of dust.
I can not write tonight.
I find my mind
Dwells on discordant church bells.
I think this discordancy
Is a part of me.
Young women’s heels click.
Clocks tick.
The weather is cold.
Girl’s arms
Have their charms.
I grow old.
A January breeze
Whispers through trees
And winter grasses
And, as it passes
It speaks to me
Of my mortality.
What will survive from this present time?
Will poets continue to write
Long into the night?
Or will rhyme of the human kind
Be replaced by robots who trot out rhymes
Of indifferent kinds.
Rhyme of the human kind will survive
And continue to thrive.
While for better or worse
Robots will write verse.
But who owns what a robot writes?
The red pillar box will go, although
A few will remain to show
That there was mail long before email.
The world will move ever faster.
I hope eccentricity will survive and thrive
When I am no longer alive
And that man can live on
When I am gone
For I am of humanity
I am tired.
Should I compose a rhyme
To women and wine?
I have desired
Both women and wine
But all pens run dry
And I
Grow so tired
Of rhyme
Of women and wine.