When old men make a pass
At the youthful lass,
I wonder whether
Either party ever
Look in the glass
And think, “all this will, one day, pass”
Nymphs will play
And hair turn to grey.
The woman (once girl)
Seeing autumn leaves whirl,
May consider the youthful lass,
And think, “all things must, one day, pass”.
The bedroom door is open.
No words are spoken
Passions stir
But noone is there.
Closing the bedroom door,
Memories I recall.
‘Tis all
As it was before.
There once was a poet named Lin
Who wrote poems on a baked bean tin.
She composed in free verse,
Which grew progressively worse,
But all the Modernists loved Lin!
When a young lady named Leigh
Dated a debauchee,
Her good friend Kate,
Being a reprobate,
Joined those 2 for tea.
When that old reprobate death
Fell in love with Beth,
She hid away
And I heard her say,
“I value my sweet breath!”.
There was a young lady of Deal
Who broke a cheap high-heel.
She hopped through the town
In her flimsy nightgown
Pursued by a vicar called Neil!
How pleasant it is to dream
In the pristine
Groves of academe,
Where the hard
Fact of a messy backyard
Is rarely, or never seen.
There was a young man named Slattery
Who said “imitation is the sincerest form of flattery”.
But when they copied his art,
It broke his heart,
So he retired to live in a hattery!
A journalist by the name of Lou
Has published a story about us two.
It concerns last night
When, by the star’s bright light
You lost a high-heel shoe …
As you pass
By the grass
My friend,
Do you, As I
Know that all flesh is grass
In the end?
K Morris - Poet 