A drawing of the curtain.
Satan does yawn
For it is certain
That the forlorn
Scene will replay
Tomorrow and today.
He will pay
And she will,
In the still
Of night remember
May in December
And pay
In her own particular way.
I knew a pretty brunette
Who went by the name of Yvette.
My good friend Jim
Married a blonde named Kim,
Who used to be Yvette!
I awoke at a little after 3:30 this morning and got up in order to quench my thirst. As I moved through my home the cry of an owl reached my ears, which brought to mind “Sic Vita” by Henry King:
“Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring’s gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood:
Even such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in, and paid to night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entombed in autumn lies,
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, and man forgot”.
There was a young lady called Holly
Who lived in an ancient folly.
One day at dawn
She looked forlorn
So I joined her in her folly …
I know a pretty young blonde
Of whom I’m extremely fond.
My wife Yvette
Works as a vet
And she doesn’t like that blonde …!
—
I know a pretty young blonde
Of whom I’m rather fond.
When she met
My wife Yvette
It ended in the pond!
Many a stiletto
Has pierced my heart,
Informed my art.
So I will not go
There again
As it causes me pain.
But on seeing girl’s in heels
Their legs bare
My resolution steals
Away and I am lost in an unreal
Affair,
Forever under the heel
Of a Claire
Or Flair.
Oh
How the point of a stiletto
Does inform my art,
Pierce my heart.
Though
Oft I wish it were not so.
There was a young man called Morris
Who laid claim to The Odes of Horace.
When the case came to court
The judge said, “I thought
That The Odes they where written by Borris!”.
Alone
In her head
She plays with her phone.
Another strange bed.
She gives no discount
To those who drink at the fount
Of her “love”.
“There is no god above”
He thinks as he takes a sup
From another empty cup
Brimful of forget
Regret
Ad infinitum.
Just another item
On his bucket list.
There was a young lady called May
Who invited me to the ballet.
But being a man of discretion
I shall make no confession
Unless the tabloids they offer to pay …
—
There was a young lady called May
Who introduced me to her housemate Fay.
Back at their flat
I took off my hat
But they didn’t ask me to stay!
A mermaid
Most staid
Oft times played
On the seashore
Until one day
The waves carried her away
In a different kind of play.
Now she will dance in May
No more.
K Morris - Poet 