Today I passed by
The bush, so green
In the light rain.
‘Tis a thing so often seen
By me,
This tree.
Yet I returned again
And touched both leaf and tree,
For the seas will still roar
Though I shall be,
No more
A young man named Hogg
Owns a very bad dog.
It stole the stocking
Of poor miss Hocking,
And Hogg he stole her clog!
—
A young lady dressed in pink
Gave me a knowing wink
And said to me, “come and see
What lies behind that fine old oaktree”,
And her hair it had a kink.
Continue reading
An attractive young lady named Claire
Is forever washing her hair.
I’ve had a hot date
With her best mate Kate,
But today Kate’s washing her hair!
A beautiful young critic named Nell
Said, “in poetry you must show not tell”.
But, when I showed her mine
Over dinner and the finest of French wine,
My poetry was lauded by Nell!
When an extremely rude young lad
Said, “your poetry ’tis very bad!”,
I said, “I once new a boy
By the name of Roy or Troy,
His demise was so very sad!
I have heard
The tick tock
Of the clock
And thought
That I ought
To become
A better man,
Ere the clock’s word
Is no longer heard
And the sun
Does, forever set
On my regret.
Marvell was right,
For, oft, at night
I fancy I hear
“Time’s Winged chariot hurrying near”.
The year
Will soon close.
No man knows
How many more he has got,
Therefore heed the tick tock
Of the clock
For it’s word
Will, one day
Pass away.
—
The reference to “Time’s Winged chariot”, can be found in Andrew Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress”, http://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/his-coy-mistress/.
When a young man whose name is Keith
Said, “this life is full of such grief”,
I said, “I have a shoe
Belonging to your new wife Lou,
Our passion was sweet but brief!”.
Can kisses, cold as gold
Bring joy
To the sorrowing
Boy?
Can borrowing
A pretend
Friend
For the night
End
In anything other
Than temporary delight?
And can a man
Change his “lover”
As easily as the cover
On his bed
Where a myriad heads
Have been,
Praying for the morning to be seen
So they may depart
Carrying in their heart
The secret of an ancient profession
That, through discretion
Or shame
Few will name?
In this wood
That I love
Things live and die.
Birds fly
Above
My head
Whilst, on the ground
The leaves lie,
Brown,
And dead
A young lady whose name is Rose
Walks around my neighbourhood wearing no clothes.
As for me
I drink whisky,
Whilst admiring the ring in her nose!
