How sweet and sad was the bird
I heard
As I stood at my open window.
When I go
To the pub to meet my friends,
We will pretend
That there is no end,
Or at least hide for a while
In the smile
Produced by drink,
Which makes men think
That all,
This will last.
But, I shall recollect the bird’s call,
As I stood at my open window
And know
That all
That sings, must pass.
Some find
In the arms
Of that ancient profession
A kind
Of passing peace.
But a girl’s charms
Fade, and many a confession
Is made
By those who still believe, to the priest.
Though, in modernity, eternity
Is feared, by those who think
On dust
And such
As a never ending drink
From the waters of Lethe
Where men find
Peace
From the world’s call,
And all
Thought
Is reduced to nought,
In Hades where there
Is no hot
Fire, and desire
Is forgot
In an eternal, dreamless dream,
And Satan’s grin, is never seen.
For the song
When a young lady who was extremely plastered
Said, “I have this blogging game mastered!”,
I said, “those shoes on your head,
And you being in the wrong bed,
Show that you are well and truly plastered!”.
I know a beautiful young dancer
And many men want to romance her.
If they have lots of money,
She calls them “darling”, and “sweet honey”.
And she owns a dog named Chancer!
When a young lady named Bess
Said, “my sins I should confess”,
I said, “that you must do,
But, first, fasten up your shoe,
And put back on your dress!”.
After such a night
There is polite
Conversation. I offer coffee
Which she
May accept, or not
(But its free).
The clock
Has ticked the hours away.
So she, will not stay.
But puts on her clothes,
This rose
(Neither yours or mine),,
Whose seeming meaning,
I shall not define.
A young lady named Patricia
Says she is no stripper.
But I’ve never accused her of that,
As she invariably keeps on her hat,
But still she says she’s bitter!
A young lady whose name is Bess
Is truly a veritable tigress.
When we met last night,
By the moon’s sweet light …
But my readers can guess the rest
Last night the rain
Came,
And the wind
To
Which almost blew
Me off my human feet.
Windblown
I took refuge at home,
From the gale.
Sheep continue to speak
Of progress.
But the wise turn pale
For they know
That the gale
May blow
Humanity off it’s feet.
When we did meet
You were indiscreet
And spoke of a good time,
In a foreign clime
With a girl who …
But I shall not repeat,
For I, (unlike you),
Can, sometimes, be discreet!
K Morris - Poet 