She laid her head
On his comfortable bed,
And did tell
Of a stairwell
And a man, who never paid.
She stayed
For a while,
And made him smile,
As they drank champagne,
Her head
On his comfortable bed.
There was no pain,
For he was not of that kind.
Though, in her mind
It may have seemed the same.
Maybe he will see her again,
And there will be champagne
Or red, or white wine.
He paid, so its fine.
Of a stairwell she did tell.
He hopes it was not the same.
A youngish lady dressed in high-heels
Said, “you don’t know how it feels
To walk in these tight stiletto shoes,
Whilst very drunk on cheap booze,
And time, all our youths he steals!”.
I confess
That I have sought
For beauty
Under a dress
And thought
That I had found
Beauty
Profound
In sighs
And yielding thighs.
Yet, many a time
I confess
That I did find
Beneath that dress
Her perfect skin
And the figure slim,
But no beauty of mind.
Like a bull
In a china shop
I have run amok.
And have been full
Of the sweet,
And found I could
Eat
More, yet
It was not love,
And I can not pretend
That it did not end
In regret.
I have had a desire
For fire
And striven to obtain
The flame
But when the fire
I did obtain,
I have been left,
Listening to the rain.
A pretty young lady named Flo
Has a boyfriend whose name is Joe.
He is over 6 foot 3
And doesn’t know anything about me,
Or the arrangement I have with Flo!
Were I to compose
A poem about a rose
Some would see young women,
And, maybe, find therein
A reference to sin.
I shall, therefore, suppose
Not a rose
But the fruit
Of Paradise,
Which is, as the reader knows
At the root
Of love, and vice.
When a young lady named Leigh
Said, “I am feeling extremely naughty!”.
I said, “I am glad,
As I like you bad,
But the vicar’s here for tea!”.
I did softly explore
A flower, as yet
Unopened. And, on returning for more,
I found (to my half-regret)
That a bee
Had been before
And explored that flower,
To it’s tender core.
I walk amidst these
Windblown
Leaves.
How time has flown.
I shall in beauty drown,
And think on these
Fallen leaves,
Which now strew the ground.
K Morris - Poet 