Art may dress an ugly thing
In clothes of beauty
And make it sing
The sweetest song.
Is the artist’s duty
To truth and beauty?
Hate and lust
Are strong
The artist’s mind
Is full of thoughts of mortal dust,
And the reputation he will leave behind.
But some still choose truth
Though their roof
Cave in,
Under the weight, of their own sin.
A young lady named Miss Coral
Is so extremely stern and moral.
A girl called Ria
Swings from my chandelier.
But I can’t afford Miss Coral.
My friend whose name is Flair
Has enjoyed many a sordid affair.
The great philosophy professor
Owns a welsh dresser.
And I’ve seen Flair dancing there.
—
A young lady whose name is Flair
Has indulged in many a sordid affair.
The daughter of archbishop Kipper
Is employed as a stripper.
And her stage name, it is Flair!
When a young lady eating bananas
Said, “do you sell see-through pyjamas?”.
A shop assistant named Paul
Pointed to the opposite wall.
But she couldn’t see any pyjamas!
I am a man
And have respect
For women.
Yet a high-heel shoe
And a smooth, perfect
Leg
Turns my thoughts to sinning
And to bed.
I find
That an empty mind
Does not attract.
But a giggle.
A wriggle
And a vacuous smile,
May distract
For a while.
Secretive giggles.
Young women’s wriggles.
A moment of pleasure
In hot weather.
A young lady wearing just pink socks
Said, “my behaviour it so frequently shocks.
I can hear the knocking
Of the Lord Bishop Hocking.
I wonder will he like my socks?”.
When a young lady waving a rifle
Said, “I hope you like my trifle”.
I said, “it’s very good,
But, I was wondering could,
You please stop waving around that rifle!”.
We may
Never see tomorrow.
For each moment we borrow.
And tomorrow’s sun
Must become,
Today.
There once was a poet named Lyme
Who composed poems about nothing but time.
Whilst drinking one day,
The sky turned grey.
And the great publican, he called time.
K Morris - Poet 